/* 


4-5*- 


THE   NEXT   CORNER 


THE  CREEPING  TIDES 
TIME  THE  COMEDIAN 
AGAINST  THE  WINDS 
THE  NEXT  CORNER 


A  second  self  seemed  to  come  to  her ;  a  self  of  wisdom, 
advising,  helping  her.     FRONTISPIECE.     See  page  285. 


THE  NEXT  CORNER 


BY 

KATE  JORDAN 


WITH    FRONTISPIECE    BY 

WILSON  V.  CHAMBERS 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,   AND  COMPANY 
1921 


Copyright,  1921, 
BY  KATE  JORDAN  VERMILYE. 


All  rights  reserved 

Published  January,  1921 
Reprinted  January,  1921 


"  Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes  ; 

But  Thou,  oh  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  afooU" 


2228453 


THE  NEXT  CORNER 


CHAPTER   I 

PARIS.  A  June  morning  with  the  freshness  and  sweet- 
ness of  the  wet,  inner  leaves  of  a  young  rose.  Clocks  had 
just  finished  striking  six. 

In  a  room  on  an  entresol  that  overlooked  the  uphill 
Rue  de  Chaillot  a  young  woman  lay  asleep.  A  pencil  of 
the  sun  had  wavered  in  through  the  drawn  persiennes, 
had  reached  her  and  was  rising  by  almost  invisible  prog- 
ress over  the  rose-colored  covering  to  her  face.  After 
flickering  across  a  bare  shoulder  that  had  slipped 
from  a  gown  as  sheer  as  a  veil,  and  touching  a  cheek 
where  wisps  of  whitish-blond  hair  clung,  it  gave  a  stab 
at  the  closed  lids  whose  fringes  lay  on  her  pallor  like  the 
wings  of  brown  moths. 

At  its  touch  they  flew  open.  And  they  stayed  open. 
This  was  not  a  drowsy  awakening.  The  wild  look  about 
the  room  was  a  net  that  caught  up  details. 

The  place  had  the  Gallic  mixture  of  heaviness  and 
caprice  to  which  were  added  notes  that  told  of  an  alien 
occupant.  Mirrors  were  set  wherever  a  mirror  could  be. 
Antiquated,  damask  draperies  around  the  bulging  bed 
had  been  tightly  roped  back  for  a  free  passage  of  air 
through  the  wide-open  windows.  The  cumbersome 
armoires  were  so  packed  that  ends  of  lacy  and  silken 
skirts  kept  them  from  closing;  American  slippers  lay 
sideways  with  a  coil  of  pale  silk  stockings  just  as  they 
had  been  flung  off;  a  mass  of  gardenias  had  died  among 
a  trail  of  silver  ribbon  on  the  bureau  top  in  the  company 
of  brushes,  rouge  pots  and  perfume  bottles;  midway  on 

1 


2  The  Next  Corner 

the  floor  there  was  a  telegram  beside  its  jaggedly  torn 
envelope ;  on  a  chaise  longue  a  gown  of  smoky  green  tulle 
sprawled  in  the  semblance  of  a  body  in  despair. 

It  was  on  the  tulle  gown  that  Elsie's  gaze  fixed  itself. 
She  remembered  what  a  recklessly  happy  heart  it  had 
covered  all  through  the  night  of  mad  frivolity,  and  with 
what  shaking  hands  —  after  reading  the  telegram  —  she 
had  managed  to  unhook  it  only  a  few  hours  before.  In 
its  grotesque  humanness  it  suddenly  seemed  to  be  herself, 
stretched  over  there  in  abandoned  grief. 

Her  arm  shot  up  to  her  eyes  and  for  a  few  seconds 
stayed  rigid,  her  teeth  sunk  into  her  underlip. 

"Oh,  well !"  came  from  her  with  smothered  desperation. 
She  squirmed  from  the  bedclothes  and  went  to  the  window. 

On  her  journey  across  the  big  room  she  picked  up  the 
telegram.  When  she  had  opened  the  persiennes  a  little, 
she  spread  out  the  paper  to  read  again  the  words  she 
knew  by  heart: 

"Instead  of  going  on  with  Cranston  I  am  already  on  my 
way  to  France  to  pick  you  up  there.  Bully  that  we  can, 
after  all,  go  home  together.  I  won't  be  able  to  get  to 
you  before  Friday  evening.  By  going  on  the  night  train 
to  Havre  we  can  get  Saturday's  ship,  which  I  think  is 
scheduled  to  start  early.  Feeling  tiptop,  and  hope  you 
are.  Looking  forward  with  much  happiness  to  seeing 
you 

"ROBERT." 

She  went  over  this  twice  and  standing  there,  dreaming, 
the  light  on  her  face,  she  visualized  the  future  she  was 
returning  to  by  the  past  from  which,  nearly  three  years 
before,  she  had  escaped. 

The  picture  of  her  childhood  was  a  muddled  thing,  like 
a  spoiled  wash  drawing  where  people  were  ghosts.  Of 
her  father,  who  had  died  when  she  was  a  baby,  she  had  no 
memory  at  all.  She  had  grown  up,  the  only  child  of  Nina 
Race.  This  persistently  young  and  gifted  mother  was 


The  Next  Corner  3 

a  celebrated  concert  singer  who  traveled  much  and  over 
great  distances,  taking  Elsie  with  her  sometimes,  more 
often  leaving  her  behind  with  a  hueless  sort  of  elderly 
aunt  as  guardian. 

But  whether  she  went,  dazzled  and  fatigued,  with  her 
mother,  or  stayed  with  Aunt  Esther  who  could  not  be 
weaned  from  the  whaleboned  basques  of  the  seventies  and 
who  sucked  lemon  drops  while  through  the  whole  year  she 
crocheted  the  things  meant  for  Christmas  gifts,  her  life 
was  spent  in  hotels ;  second-class  ones  with  Aunt  Esther, 
the  best  when  with  the  successful  singer. 

An  hotel  child.  She  had  come  to  see  that  there  was 
nothing  on  God's  earth  more  unfitting  and  unfair.  Eat- 
ing, one  of  a  crowd.  Studying  her  lessons  with  the  voices 
of  strangers  beating  on  the  thin  doors  between  bedrooms. 
Not  only  forbidden  to  play  in  the  halls  that  had  the  in- 
vitation of  emptiness  and  expanse;  always  told  to 
speak  even  more  quietly  there.  "Hush !"  —  Oh,  what  a 
shackling  word  that  had  been  all  through  the  forming 
years,  when  her  spirit  was  cramped  in  constantly 
changing  rooms  that  always  bore  a  dreary  resemblance 
to  each  other;  and  where  crowds  looked  at  her  only  to 
pass  her  over. 

She  saw  other  children  in  shops  and  streets  and  car- 
riages, held  to  their  mothers  and  kissed  when  they  cried; 
petted  and  kissed  with  delight  when  they  capered  and 
laughed.  No  one  kissed  away  her  tears.  Her  passionate 
heart,  that  cried  for  love  as  dry  lips  crave  water,  that 
needed  an  idol  on  which  to  expend  its  glowing  wor- 
ship, was  not  of  interest  to  any  one  except  as  an  organ 
to  beat  normally  with  health.  Cats  and  dogs,  and  dolls 
grown  frayed  from  the  endearments  of  her  craving  hands 
were  all  she  had  as  solace,  and  these  only  at  times,  because 
of  the  shifting  hotel  life  where  so  often  pets  were  for- 
bidden and  dolls  were  mislaid  or  left  behind. 

Perhaps  when  she  went  with  her  mother  to  strange 
cities  it  was  a  little  more  trying,  especially  after  she  was 
sixteen.  Nina,  chronically  juvenile  in  type,  lovely,  gay, 


4  The  Next  Corner 

good-humored,  was  a  magnet  to  crowds  of  friends,  with 
several  men  always  on  the  edge  of  asking  her  to  marry 
them,  or  about  to  take  to  drink  because  she  would  not. 
And  then  would  come  Nina's  daughter  like  a  fist-blow 
statistic  of  Nina's  age,  —  a  serious  girl,  thin  as  a  wand 
and  with  big,  gray  eyes,  who  seemed  sullen,  she  said  so 
little;  a  guest  who  didn't  "mix,"  and  whose  entrance  sent 
all  the  naughty  sparkle  out  of  Nina's  parties. 

The  sense  of  misrelation  to  her  environment  had  become 
an  agony  to  Elsie  when  at  last  a  friend  of  Nina's,  met 
during  a  tour  of  the  mining  towns  of  the  Northwest,  had 
found  her  worth  drawing  from  her  dumb  shyness  and  try- 
ing to  know.  As  a  result  she  had  responded  to  Robert 
Maury  with  an  enthusiasm  that  had  seemed  to  him  and  to 
herself  to  be  awakened  love  but  that  really  had  been  the 
gratitude  of  the  rescued.  Almost  at  once,  mostly  be- 
cause it  suited  her  mother's  plans  which  were  about  to 
take  her  through  South  America,  she  had  married  Robert. 

He  was  of  Scotch-Irish  descent,  thirty-seven  now  — 
and  had  always  looked  less  than  his  years  —  of  good 
height,  spare  and  strong;  light-moving,  impulsive  in 
manner.  His  ruggedly  cut  face  with  steady  blue  eyes,  his 
bony  jaw,  his  mouth,  elastic  and  whimsical  in  humor  and 
like  granite  in  decision,  had  been  an  honest  declaration 
of  his  nature  as  she  had  come  to  know  it.  He  was  a  fair 
dealer ;  practical  without  hardness ;  quick  to  feel  affection 
and  reticent  in  expression  of  it ;  of  even  and  healthy  pas- 
sions that  could  be  quenched  as  summer  tempests  and 
instantly  forgotten  under  the  control  of  the  mind;  and 
yet  with  a  substratum  of  Celtic  mysticism  which  could 
fill  him  at  moments  with  an  ecstasy  of  vision  of  which  he 
rarely  spoke.  A  man  who  had  the  curb  upon  every  phase 
of  himself,  his  own  master  hardily  and  hers  very  gently. 

Robert  was  a  mining  engineer  with  little  money  and 
large  prospects  when,  at  nineteen,  she  had  become  his 
wife.  And  for  nearly  four  years  she  had  lived  with  him 
in  forlorn  mining  settlements  in  the  northwestern  part  of 
the  States  and  Canada,  —  an  experience  as  lacking  to 


The  Next  Corner  5 

her  in  color  and  the  thrill  of  life  as  if  she  had  been  pent 
up  in  a  lighthouse. 

During  it  she  had  borne  a  child;  had  loved  it  with  all 
the  fierce,  imaginative  passion  that  was  in  her  and  that 
her  husband  had  never  touched;  had  seen  it  grow  into  a 
lovely  toddler ;  had  seen  it  sicken ;  had  battled  for  its  life 
with  a  fairly  blasphemous  resistance  against  the  Power 
that  could  take  it  from  her;  had  watched  it  die. 

There  had  been  a  terrible  year  after  that,  when  she 
had  felt  herself  a  gray  figure  moving  through  the  fogs 
of  melancholia,  seeing  always  that  little  child  change  from 
loving-eyed,  warm,  breathing  flesh  against  her  heart  to 
a  sculptured  thing  with  sunk-in  lashes  on  marble  cheeks 
and  tiny  lips  of  steel. 

And  then  a  path  had  shown  through  the  fog.  Robert, 
very  successful  now,  had  been  selected  by  an  English 
mining  syndicate  as  one  of  several  men  to  report  on  mines 
in  Burmah.  It  was  not  an  expedition  to  include  women, 
least  of  all  such  a  ghost  of  a  woman  as  she  was  then,  so 
he  had  left  it  to  her  to  select  where,  with  an  attendant 
nurse,  she  would  live  during  his  long  absence. 

Her  mother  was  in  Russia  at  the  time,  and  Aunt  Esther 
had  returned  to  her  native  Vermont  village.  She  brushed 
out  both  and  with  the  freakish  impulse  of  the  sick  had 
selected  Paris,  for  no  reason  except  a  recurrence  of  its 
name  in  her  thoughts  after  reading  George  Moore's  "Con- 
fessions of  A  Young  Man."  It  had  been  a  whisper  at 
first,  then  a  tug  and  a  demand. 

Elsie  took  some  listless  steps  to  the  mirror  above  the 
bureau  and  studied  herself.  For  nearly  three  years  this 
glass  had  reflected  her  face.  Now  that  she  was  question- 
ing it  almost  for  the  last  time  —  for  this  was  to  be  her 
last  day  in  Paris  —  she  seemed  to  see  many  ghosts  of  her- 
self there,  as  she  had  been  in  the  beginning  and  through 
the  quickening  experiences  that  had  gone  to  the  making 
of  the  woman  of  twenty-six  that  she  was  on  this  last 
morning. 


6  The  Next  Corner 

How  raw  she  had  been  at  first;  and  drunk,  innocently 
drunk,  with  the  joy  of  every  simple  day,  crowded  with 
new  things! 

Health  had  come  quickly  and  the  nurse  had  been  dis- 
missed. Quickly,  too,  she  had  made  friends.  Not  always 
the  right  or  best  sort  of  friends,  she  well  knew.  At  first 
she  had  tried  to  keep  her  values  clear  and  only  come  close 
to  men  and  women  that  she  felt  her  husband  would  have 
thought  fit  for  her  friendship.  Soon,  pliably,  she  had 
come  not  to  care  what  others  were,  providing  they  were 
amusing.  "Not  to  be  bored"  was  the  slogan  of  the  cos- 
mopolitan crowd  who  from  various  eddies  had  floated  to 
the  part  of  the  Paris  stream  that  whirled  her  along. 

She  had  not  been  wholly  without  purpose.  Her  voice, 
an  attenuated  sort  of  inheritance  from  her  mother,  had 
been  trained  fitfully.  It  was  not  a  serious  ambition  with 
her,  and  it  had  no  market  value.  Truthful  to  herself, 
she  knew  that  after  her  arid  childhood  and  the  monotone 
of  her  marriage  she  had  been  for  these  three  years  in 
Paris  a  nervous  devourer  of  life,  —  large  slices  of  it,  with 
many  sorts  of  sauce  upon  them.  With  greed  and  fever 
she  had  eaten  them  honestly,  in  the  sight  of  all.  Too 
honestly.  Few  believed  that  her  indiscretions  were  of 
the  surface,  that  the  high  flavors  had  only  touched  her 
mental  palate  without  as  yet  taking  any  healthy  prop- 
erty from  the  blood  current. 

Still  while  she  was  different  from  the  married  women 
she  knew,  most  of  whom  had  lovers  and  several  a  cynically 
easy  succession  of  them,  she  was  not  quite  on  the  other 
side  of  the  line.'  Not  as  she  had  been.  Not  now.  Not 
to-day.  The  feeling  that  one  has  been  close  to  the  com- 
mission of  a  wrong  act  can  have  much  of  the  body  of  the 
accomplished  fault.  So  the  telegram  that  she  had  found 
waiting  for  her  when  she  had  come  in  close  to  dawn, 
tossed,  warm,  with  a  man's  first  kisses  burning  on  her 
mouth,  and  that  had  fallen  from  her  weak  fingers,  had 
been  like  her  husband's  hand  fastening  upon  her  shoulder. 

Now   she  flung  it   among   the   cosmetic   and   perfume 


The  Next  Corner  7 

bottles.  There  was  a  desperate  tilt  to  her  head,  a  quiver 
to  her  nostrils,  —  the  look  of  a  last  hope  in  a  fight. 

"If  I  don't  go  back?  If  I  refuse?"  she  thought. 
"Other  women  have  burned  the  boats  behind  them.  Were 
they  always  sorry,  afterward  —  always?  If  I  —  oh,  if 
I  —  take  daringly  what  I  love,  what  I  crave  — ?" 

She  lifted  the  gardenias.  They  were  almost  brown  and 
without  scent  except  for  a  curious  cigarette  odor  still 
held  in  the  trail  of  ribbon;  this  was  unlike  any  of  the 
several  sorts  of  tobacco  popular  in  Paris;  this  was 
Spanish,  —  a  pungent,  enduring,  woody  flavor,  that  re- 
called only  one  man  Elsie  knew,  and  she  drew  it  in  with 
longing,  her  eyes  shut.  As  she  buried  her  face  among 
the  flowers  she  was  sorry  that  in  the  excitement  of  read- 
ing the  telegram  she  had  left  them  to  die.  They  had  been 
so  like  stars  of  white  velvet  last  night.  And  in  their 
death  they  seemed  also  to  be  that  night,  mad  and  sweet 
but  lost,  —  one  that  never  could  be  again. 

She  was  leaving  Paris.  She  was  going  to-night.  To- 
night. 

Her  hands  were  very  small  and  had  a  way  of  trembling 
when  she  was  agitated.  They  trembled  now  as  her  fingers 
moved  among  the  limp  stems.  She  kissed  them.  A  name 
left  her  lips,  faintly  at  first,  then  with  a  raging  sadness 
that  shook  her.  It  was  not  her  husband's  name. 


CHAPTER   II 

SEVERAL  hours  hung  on  Elsie's  hands  before  the  ma- 
chinery of  the  day  would  be  set  going.  Her  apartment, 
though  in  an  exclusive  part  of  Paris  with  the  great  Arc 
towering  on  its  rise  close  by,  and  a  high-priced  one  be- 
cause of  its  situation,  was  very  small,  without  a  room 
for  a  resident  maid.  Julie,  her  femme  de  menage,  would 
not  appear  until  half -past  eight ;  and  it  would  be  another 
twenty  minutes  after  that  before  the  fragrance  of  coffee 
would  come  as  the  genial  herald  of  the  day's  start. 

The  prospect  was  not  to  be  borne  peacefully.  Elsie's 
nerves  were  so  responsive  to  her  imagination  they  easily 
became  a  fine  torture  to  her.  Besides,  she  did  not  mean 
to  waste  even  one  moment  of  this  last  day  in  the  city 
that  had  wound  its  fibers  about  her  heart. 

Still  in  her  nightgown,  she  sped  to  the  brick-paved 
kitchen  where  copper  bowls  and  pans  sparkled  on  the 
walls  with  the  effect  of  ornaments,  and  started  the  coffee 
to  percolate.  While  that  was  in  progress  she  bathed  and 
dressed  for  the  street,  putting  on  a  pink  muslin  that  sent 
a  rosiness  over  the  silver-gold  hair,  and  a  Leghorn  hat 
whose  brim  slashed  her  eyes  with  shadow. 

She  was  sitting  with  her  elbows  on  the  kitchen  table, 
drinking  the  coffee  listlessly  when  Julie  arrived  laden  with 
fresh  croissants,  fresh  butter,  a  sheaf  of  purple  iris  from 
the  market  outside  the  Madeleine  and  the  morning  letters. 
Her  eyes  over  the  flowers  became  rigid  black  spots  at 
sight  of  Elsie. 

"Madame?"  she  shrilled.  "I  did  not  imagine  you  would 
open  your  eyes  for  hours.  Is  it  that  something's  wrong?" 

Julie  had  a  deep  love  for  her  young  mistress  who  was 

8 


The  Next  Corner  9 

talkative  and  happy  over  every  small  attention  and  never 
found  fault.  She  sympathized  with  her,  too,  in  a  manner 
that  was  fairly  that  of  a  fighter,  at  having  to  live  alone 
"as  if  —  voila!  —  she  were  already  a  widow !"  And  she 
had  the  Gallic  suspicion  of  a  husband  who  could  so  settle 
himself  apart  from  his  wife.  It  was  no  wonder  that  a 
woman  as  lovely  and  seduisante  as  her  young  madame 
should  have  men  fluttering  about  her  as  bees  after  honey. 
What  would  you?  It  was  but  natural!  Any  husband 
might  have  expected  this  situation,  she  thought.  And  if 
he  lost  his  wife  —  this  absent  American  whom  she  had 
never  seen  —  he  would  have  only  himself  to  blame. 

"Serve  him  right !"  she  would  conclude,  her  small  teeth 
shut,  and  in  the  thought  felt  herself  a  champion  of  all 
women  against  all  men,  her  own  husband  prominently  in- 
cluded. 

Elsie  decided  to  spare  the  good  creature  the  grief  that 
knowledge  of  her  departure  would  bring,  until  she  came 
back,  when  it  would  also  be  time  to  notify  the  Austrian 
countess  who  had  let  the  furnished  apartment  to  her  and 
begin  the  complicated  packing. 

Lightsome,  tender  and  delicious  she  looked  to  Julie's 
adoring  eyes  —  like  a  big  flower  of  gold  and  whitish-pink 
against  the  flashing,  copper-lined  walls  —  until  she  saw 
her  face  fully,  marked  its  dead  pallor  under  the  big  hat. 

"It's  such  a  glorious  morning,"  Elsie  said,  sadness 
through  one  of  her  softly  whimsical  smiles.  "I  grew  ener- 
getic —  thought  I'd  go  for  an  early  walk." 

She  took  the  letters  in  one  hand,  a  last  morsel  of 
croissant  in  the  other,  and  started  for  the  door  when 
Julie's  face,  openly  troubled,  drew  her  back.  "Qu'est-ce 
qu'il  y  a,  Julie?  Pourquoi  tu  me  regardes  comme  fa?" 
she  asked  kindly. 

"Something  has  happened  —  something  triste"  said 
the  woman,  hands  on  hips,  head  nodding.  "I  know  that 
look  in  your  eyes,  madame  —  as  if  you  saw  down  into  a 
grave !" 

Elsie  could  not  keep  back  a  light  rush  of  tears.     She 


10  The  Next  Corner 

thrust  her  head  forward  with  a  curving  dart  like  a  gull's 
on  starting  to  soar  and  laid  her  warm  lips  on  Julie's 
cheek. 

"You  dear  Julie,"  she  said,  her  arm  along  the  sturdy 
peasant  shoulders,  "you  have  been  the  kindest  woman!  I 
don't  know  what  I'd  have  done  without  you.  I'll  —  never 
forget  you  —  "  broke  from  her  sharply  as  she  turned 
away. 

"Madame?"  This  was  muted,  all  dazed  alarm.  "It 
is  not  that  —  not  that  you  are  going  to  leave  me?" 

Elsie  had  gone.  On  the  street  the  glow  and  freshness 
took  her  breath.  The  morning  was  an  etherialized  pearl. 
As  her  head  sank  back,  swimming  with  sense  of  the  beauty 
about  her,  regret  twisted  more  deeply  into  her.  Oh,  she 
did  not  want  to  leave  Paris!  Why  must  it  be?  Oh,  why 
—  oh,  why? 

Cool  and  careful  loving  was  never  possible  to  her. 
Whatever  she  took  into  her  heart  she  cherished  with  fire 
and  depth.  Her  feeling  for  this  city,  that  from  the  first 
day  had  gladdened  her,  had  exaltation  in  it.  She  could 
understand  a  Frenchwoman  dying  to  save  it ;  killing  to 
save  it.  Herself,  this  morning,  would  have  taken  it  in 
her  arms  if  she  could  —  its  sculptured  loveliness,  blue- 
gray  haze,  leafy  perspectives,  fragrance  and  charm  —  all 
that  made  it  Paris. 

The  sweep  of  the  Champs  Elysees  between  the  full- 
blossomed  chestnuts  showed  only  a  few  early  work  people, 
motors  with  long  distances  between,  and  a  trio  of  horse- 
men on  their  way  to  the  Bois  for  breakfast.  Elsie  gave 
each  of  the  riders  a  scrutinizing  glance  before  making  her 
way  to  the  mustard-colored  metal  seats  under  the  trees, 
and  from  which  one  of  the  aged  women  who  had  them  in 
charge  was  wiping  the  night  dew. 

It  was  as  a  sort  of  farewell  ceremony  that  she  gave  the 
caretaker  the  change  from  the  two-franc  piece  with  which 
she  paid  for  a  chair  and  looked  tenderly  into  the  half- 
blind  eyes  that  flickered  at  her  in  delighted  surprise  while 
the  voice  said  fumblingly:  "Je  vous  remercie,  mademoi- 


The  Next  Corner  11 

selle!"  This  sight  of  lonely  old  age  on  the  youthful 
morning  kept  her  thoughts  on  their  minor  key  as  she 
sorted  her  letters. 

There  was  only  one  that  tempted  her  to  an  immediate 
reading.  This  was  from  her  mother.  And  by  experience 
Elsie  knew  that  any  sort  of  surprise  might  spring  at  her 
with  the  opening  of  the  envelope.  One  received  seven 
months  earlier  had  told  her  of  the  death  of  Nina's  voice 
from  diphtheria ;  and  another,  following  shortly  after, 
had  set  forth  in  detail  how,  having  lost  her  career  and  its 
large  income,  she  had  married  Percy  Vining,  fourteen 
years  younger  than  herself,  who  owned  a  millinery  shop 
on  Fifth  Avenue.  That  this  one  held  something  exciting 
was  evident  at  the  first  glance.  It  was  in  Nina's  most 
dislocated  manner,  a  thing  of  dashes  and  underscorings 
and  exclamations: 

"Elsie,"  it  began,  "I  can't  tell  you  how  you  are  madden- 
ing and  disappointing  me !  After  all  I  said  to  you  when  I 
was  in  Paris  —  not  a  year  ago  —  you  seem  to  have  kept 
on,  until  you  have  made  a  -fool  of  yourself  about  Don 
Arturo !  I  enclose  you  the  anonymous  letter  that  I've 
just  received,  so  you  can  see  I  am  not  imagining  things. 
Of  course  it's  from  some  cat  of  a  woman  who  is  probably 
crazy  herself  about  that  adorable  Spaniard  —  for  you 
see  how  just  I  am?  No  one  admits  more  than  I  do  all 
his  good  looks  and  fairly  uncanny  fascination.  All  I 
asked  —  and  still  ask  —  is  that  while  I  can't  blame  you 
for  having  Don  Arturo  hanging  about  —  don't  take  him 
seriously.  My  dear,  you  are  so  impulsive!  In  spite  of 
that  cynical  pose  that  the  Paris  game  has  taught  you, 
it's  my  belief  that  you  could  be  an  awful  fool  and  make 
some  blunder  that  would  bring  life  down  on  you  in  a 
smash-up ! 

"But  I  keep  hoping  that  while  it  may  be  true  that 
wherever  you  go  Don  Arturo  is  at  your  heels,  you  won't 
do  anything  to  make  Robert  divorce  you.  If  you  do  — 
you'll  be  ruined.  For  Arturo  would  never  marry  you. 


12  The  Next  Corner 

I  know  this.  Traveling  all  over  this  world  as  I've  done, 
I've  got  a  line  on  all  sorts  of  men.  Among  them  I  under- 
stand Spaniards  of  Don  Arturo's  class  —  and  they  are 
not  like  anything  else  on  earth.  I  lived  a  year  in  Madrid, 
you  know,  and  the  sort  of  pride  you  meet  among  the 
grandees  makes  all  the  other  prides  in  the  world  look 
like  tin  whistles  beside  a  full  string  orchestra.  Now  your 
Don  Arturo  Valda  y  Moncado,  Marques  de  Burgos,  is 
a  grandee  of  the  first  class.  You  don't  get  at  his  pride 
on  the  outside  because  after  two  years  at  Oxford  and 
living  practically  ever  since  in  Paris,  he  has  sense  enough 
to  mask  it.  But  if  }rou  could  meet  his  family  —  that 
mother  and  sister  of  his  who  haven't  traveled  at  all  — 
one  glance  would  show  you  what  short  work  they'd  make 
of  your  hopes  of  marriage  with  him.  I  don't  believe 
they'd  expect  you  to  sit  down  in  their  presence  unless 
they  told  you  you  could.  And  y6u  wouldn't  laugh  at 
them  either.  This  pride  is  so  fixed,  so  old,  it's  solemn  — 
sort  of  terrifying. 

"I'll  bet  you're  thinking  that  I'm  such  a  fool  for  having 
married  Percy  and  his  little  hat  shop,  you're  giving  one 
of  your  cool,  shadowy  smiles  at  all  this  advice.  (Oh,  I 
can  see  that  short  upper  lip  go  up!)  But,  just  the  same 
/  know  my  business.  While  Percy  is  thirty  and  I  am  — 
well,  I'd  die  before  I'd  put  it  on  paper!  —  he  looks  older. 
Also,  he  makes  me  laugh.  Also  he  doesn't  fuss  because 
I  don't  stick  to  one  color  hair.  In  fact,  my  Perce  doesn't 
expect  anything  of  anybody  —  and  so  he  never  gets  left ! 
Then,  too,  he  has  a  snug  little  business.  And  best  of  all 
he's  a  Roman  Catholic  and  I  married  him  in  his  church  — 
so  he'll  never  get  away  from  me  through  any  easy  divorce. 
From  all  this,  don't  you  see  how  sensibly  I've  attended  to 
my  future?  My  dear,  I  could  bite  a  tack  through  with 
my  wisdom  teeth,  although  people  think  me  just  a  pretty 
fool. 

"I  was  so  glad  to  get  Robert's  short  letter  saying  he 
was  coming  back  within  the  month,  though  he  could  not 
go  on  to  Paris  for  you.  Now  I  suggest  —  I  even  beseech 


The  Next  Corner  13 

you,  Elsie  —  to  come  now  and  be  here  ahead  of  him,  to 
greet  him.  Cable  me,  and  I'll  get  rooms  reserved  at  my 
hotel. 

"A  last  word!  If  you  should  do  anything  rash  in  re- 
gard to  Don  Arturo  that  queers  you  with  Robert,  don't 
look  for  assistance  from  me.  As  far  as  money  goes  I 
haven't  a  cent  left  after  my  insane  speculations,  and 
Percy's  business  only  nets  us  an  income  on  which  we  man- 
age to  live.  Besides,  sweet  as  the  dear  boy  is,  he  would  not 
tolerate  my  taking  you  in  with  us.  Couldn't  stand  the 
father  stunt  —  too  bridegroom^! 

"For  years,  while  Robert  was  a  poor  man,  you  lived 
with  him  in  those  awful  western  holes  and  made  him 
happy.  So  don't  lose  him  now  when,  as  he  tells  me,  he  has 
made  a  pile  of  money  and  is  one  of  the  directors  of  the 
Burmah  company.  Robert's  rich.  And  Arturo,  like  so 
many  of  Spain's  grandees,  is  deadly  poor.  That  confi- 
dential man  of  his  —  Serafin,  isn't  it?  —  told  me  as  if  it 
were  the  most  natural  thing,  that  Arturo's  sister  and 
mother  live  in  a  secret  sort  of  poverty  in  just  a  wing  of 
the  old  casa  senorial  at  Burgos  so  they  can  scrape  enough 
together  to  support  him  as  a  gentleman  in  Paris.  The 
idea  of  Arturo's  working  would  be  like  sacrilege  to  all  of 
them.  They'd  faint  at  the  suggestion! 

"Now  I've  warned  you,  Elsie.  Don't  be  a  fool !  Come 
home  and  be  ready  for  your  husband. 

"Your  little  Muv  —  who  loves  her  baby." 

Elsie  read  this  with  breathless  interest  until  she 
reached  the  advice  tendered  to  the  wife  of  a  rich  man  in 
love  with  a  poor  one.  At  this  the  cool  smile  spoken  of  in 
the  letter  had  raised  her  mutinous  lip,  as  it  had  so  often 
in  past  years  when  at  some  break  in  her  mother's  mask 
she  had  had  a  peep  behind  it.  In  the  closing  paragraphs 
lay  the  whole  meaning  of  this  violent  persuasion.  It  was 
propaganda  in  the  cause  of  dollars  and  ease.  Reduced 
to  an  essence  it  could  have  read :  "Now  that  your  husband 
has  wealth  keep  in  with  him,  making  him  believe  you  love 


14  The  Next  Corner 

him,  though  you  may  not.  The  other  man  has  no 
money." 

And  this  was  the  conclusion  she  had,  through  the 
undercurrent  of  her  thought,  been  coming  to  ever  since 
she  read  her  husband's  telegram.  Not  because  he  was 
rich  and  Arturo  poor,  but  because  she  was  —  herself. 

She  had  no  exact  knowledge  of  all  the  phases  of  her 
nature,  but  of  one  thing  she  had  always  been  aware,  — 
her  lack  of  initiative.  This  was  as  plain  to  her  as  the 
shape  of  her  useless  little  hands.  The  new  and  perplexing 
she  had  met  easily  and  with  success,  because  there  had 
been  always  the  consciousness  of  some  one  as  a  wall  back 
of  her,  a  brace,  a  shelter.  In  childhood,  though  she  had 
been  perishing  for  affection,  her  safeguards  had  been  her 
mother  and  Aunt  Esther.  Afterward  there  had  been 
Robert,  —  he,  most  of  all.  And  though  thousands  of 
miles  from  her  for  years,  he  yet  remained  her  sureness 
and  her  strength.  Nothing  could  ever  seriously  harm 
her  while  he  found  her  precious. 

Arturo?  Ah,  that  was  different  altogether.  With  the 
question  there  struggled  up  from  some  deep  cave  in  her 
spirit  a  reckless  magnetism  toward  love  with  him  along 
strange  paths.  And  yet  the  desire,  now  as  always,  coiled 
on  itself,  much  as  one  who,  though  knowing  how  to  swim, 
has  a  panic  on  venturing  into  water  beyond  his  depth  and 
strikes  home  to  the  shallows  where  the  feet,  when  they 
choose,  can  feel  the  safe  sands  under  them. 

There  was  never  clear  sight  of  any  goal  with  this  lover 
who  had  taught  her  the  meaning  of  passion's  intoxication. 
All  the  paths  with  him  were  veiled,  just  as  back  of  his 
bitterly  adoring  gaze  there  was  always  something  she 
could  not  read ;  something  that  belonged  to  traditions  in 
him  unintelligible  to  her  and  that  in  a  vague  way  he  gave 
the  impression  of  living  up  to  immutably. 

No,  there  was  nothing  of  surety  with  her  lover.  And 
she  was  afraid  of  any  venturesome  step  that  might  lead 
some  day  to  dangerous  places  where  alone  she  would  have 
to  face  life  in  the  raw,  fight  it  with  bare  hands.  The 


The  Next  Corner  15 

wrong  sort  of  training  had  turned  her  out  a  runaway 
from  results.  This  knowledge  made  her  despise  herself. 
But  it  was  there.  It  had  to  be  faced. 

Lost  in  her  thoughts,  she  had  kept  folding  the  letter 
over  and  over,  finality  in  her  downward  look,  and  did  not 
see  the  rider  who  at  sight  of  her  pulled  up  his  horse,  then 
came  on  close  to  the  pavement  at  a  walk.  His  shadow 
was  upon  her  before  she  raised  her  eyes  and  saw  the  face 
that  went  with  her  in  her  dreams. 


CHAPTER   III 

DON  ARTUBO  slipped  to  the  ground  and  with  his  free 
hand  lifted  one  of  hers  to  his  lips. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said,  adding  very  softly,  "my 
own,  and  my  very  dearest?" 

Elsie  left  her  hand  in  his.  That  it  was  cold  and 
quivered  sent  the  glow  of  the  master  over  him.  He  held 
it  a  moment,  then  as  passers-by  were  becoming  more  fre- 
quent, dropped  it  and  assumed  a  casual  air.  He  knew 
how  to  talk  to  a  woman  so  that  she  could  read  his  devo- 
tion while  to  the  closest  watcher  he  would  seem  but  casu- 
ally attentive. 

"I  came  in  a  roundabout  way  to  ride  past  your  house, 
thinking  you'd  be  fast  asleep,"  Arturo  said  very  boyishly. 
"I  never  dreamed  of  seeing  you  out  so  early  after  getting 
home  so  late.  Maybe  you  were  like  me?  —  too  happy  to 
sleep?"  He  asked  the  question  with  a  look  of  the  most 
intense  love.  His  voice  was  languid,  the  tone  rich;  his 
English,  with  the  faintly  emphasized  exactness  of  the  for- 
eigner, that  of  the  Oxford  man.  "Tell  me,  Elsie,  was  it 
so?" 

"I  slept  for  a  few  hours.     I  woke  up  early." 

"That  is  the  way  with  love.  It  wants  us  to  be  awake 
in  the  beautiful  world  that  it  makes  for  us.  Ah  —  and 
isn't  it  beautiful?" 

It  was  hard  to  have  to  tell  him  in  this  public  place 
what  it  was  that  had  driven  her  out.  Back  of  her  soft 
lips  her  teeth  were  set.  She  was  recording  every  detail 
about  him  to  be  remembered  when  she  was  far  from  him 
in  a  different  world,  —  and  divided  forever. 

He  was  twenty-nine.  An  air  of  ingenuousness  would 
disclose  the  boy  in  him.  Sometimes  the  marks  of  emo- 

16 


The  Next  Corner  17 

tional  experience  —  of  a  silken  depravity  —  peeped  out 
and  made  him  seem  in  the  thirties.  His  gaze,  with  the 
Spaniard's  meditative  sadness  in  repose,  was  often  listless 
or  petulant.  Though  his  riding  clothes  were  very  plain, 
showed  signs  of  use  and  were  worn  with  carelessness,  the 
warm  grace  of  the  south  that  gives  just  a  shade  of  effem- 
inacy hung  about  him.  His  eyes  were  pure  black,  un- 
muddied  by  the  faintest  brown,  sparkling  like  cut  jet 
through  a  dreaming  glow.  His  lightly-mustached  lips 
were  sensitively  curved,  with  deep  descending  corners  and 
with  a  smile  that  showed  dazzling  teeth  and  a  mouth  as 
fresh  as  a  child's.  This  smile  came  rarely  through  his 
soft-lying  gravity;  when  it  did,  it  rose  slowly  to  rest  in 
his  eyes  and  deepen  there  musingly  to  the  audacious 
saying  of  things  he  would  not  dare  put  into  words. 

His  Antinous-like  beauty  had  two  blurring  notes ;  a 
look  of  cruelty  as  cold  as  steel  that  often  moved  over 
the  lips,  flattening  them,  —  a  look  sometimes  seen  even  on 
the  faces  of  beautiful  Spanish  women  when  watching  the 
blood-spilling  of  a  bullfight ;  and  a  thickness  to  the  neck 
that  went  sharply  into  shoulders  too  broad  for  his  lithe 
body  that  was  but  little  above  middle  height.  These 
blemishes  gave  to  his  idyllic  symmetry  a  look  of  sensual 
aggression  and  strength  that  but  heightened  his  attrac- 
tiveness to  women. 

He  radiated  happiness  as  he  went  on  brightly:  "I'm 
breakfasting  with  some  men  at  Pre  Catalan  —  my 
cousins.  They  leave  Paris  to-night.  I'd  have  forgotten 
the  matter  altogether  if  Serafin  had  not  reminded  me. 
They  would  have  been  mortally  insulted  if  I'd  failed  to 
appear  —  we  Spaniards  are  so  childishly  oversensitive 
about  the  politesse  of  life.  Yes,  if  the  engagement  had 
been  with  any  one  else,  I'd  have  stayed  in  my  bed — " 
His  voice  sank,  his  sultry  eyes  met  hers  with  a  message 
that  had  the  effect  upon  her  of  a  passionate  caress,  and 
words  followed,  all  rushed  and  huddled  together,  "  —  in 
my  dark  room  —  dreaming  there  of  you,  in  the  darkness. 
Darling,  darling  —  of  those  last  moments  with  you !" 


18  The  Next  Corner 

She  drank  in  the  words.  Perhaps  in  this  brief  meeting 
on  the  Paris  thoroughfare  she  was  hearing  his  voice  for 
the  last  time.  It  seemed  an  uncanny,  impossible,  even  a 
wrong  thing  to  imagine;  and  yet  there  it  was,  just  ahead, 
waiting,  sure. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked  suddenly,  and  from 
the  misgiving  in  his  quickly  widened  gaze  she  saw  he  had 
put  his  own  interpretation  upon  her  silence.  "What's 
become  of  all  your  brightness?  It's  strange  not  to  see 
you  fluttering  and  jesting  and  laughing.  But  I  under- 
stand. You  are  regretting  — !" 

The  impatient  words  stopped  when  Elsie's  hands  went 
up  and  down  in  a  denial  of  singular  hopelessness.  "I  was 
going  to  send  for  you  —  to  tell  you  something,  Arturo. 
But  seeing  you  now,  I'll  tell  you  — " 

"I  do  not  want  to  hear  it,"  broke  from  him  coldly. 
He  straightened  beside  the  horse.  "I  know  what  you'll 
say.  Haven't  I  listened  to  you  for  a  year,  during  which 
I  might  eat  out  my  heart  and  show  it  to  you,  tortured, 
getting  your  attention  —  oh,  yes,  and  even  your  invita- 
tion, por  Dios!  —  yet  never,  until  last  night,  permitted 
more  than  a  kiss  upon  your  hand!  I'm  tired  of  that, 
Elsie.  I  won't  have  it  any  more.  You've  got  to  stop 
taking  one  step  forward  and  another  back.  You  are  as 
full  of  wretched  love  for  me  as  I  am  for  you.  Your  lips 
told  me  that  last  night.  Last  night  I  found  you.  I  shall 
keep  you.  I  intend  to  fill  my  life  with  your  love !" 

His  ivory  pallor  had  grayed  with  anger;  he  was  dan- 
geroiis  in  manner.  Often  he  had  looked  at  her  this  way, 
—  as  if  his  devotion  were  close  neighbor  to  hatred ;  as  if, 
since  he  could  not  conquer  her,  he  wished  to  hurt  her 
cruelly  to  satisfy  the  exasperated  need  that  was  con- 
suming him.  And  yet,  as  always,  he  managed  to  com- 
municate to  her  the  appeal  of  one  hungry,  demanding 
bread. 

"I  won't  be  played  with  any  longer.  I'm  a  man  to 
keep  what  is  mine  —  once  I  am  sure  that  it  is  mine." 

When  he  would  have  mounted  the  horse  she  stood  up 


The  Next  Corner  19 

and  went  close  to  him.  "You  don't  understand.  Every- 
thing's changed,"  she  said,  a  joyless  smile  working  over 
her  mouth,  "and  probably  a  good  thing  too  —  for  me ! 
When  I  got  in  last  night  —  this  morning  —  there  was  a 
telegram  from  my  husband  — " 

"Another?"  he  asked  with  curled  lip  and  a  look  of  in- 
sult. "He  is  a  man  of  telegrams !  He  is  made  of  bits 
of  paper !" 

"Robert's  coming  for  me."  Her  voice  was  faint,  though 
she  met  his  stormy  gaze  steadily.  "Coming  to-night.  I 
leave  here  with  him  —  to-night.  We  sail  in  the  morning 
from  Havre,  for  home."  She  gave  an  unhappy  laugh, 
a  twitch  to  one  shoulder,  as  she  watched  him.  "I  won't 
annoy  you  any  more,  you  see,  Arturo !  I  won't  torture 
you  any  more!  You  ought  to  be  glad!" 

He  looked  away  from  her.  Intense  quiet  went  over 
him.  His  brows  came  down,  and  he  fingered  the  bit  as 
if  thinking  only  of  its  arrangement. 

"So  —  that's  it?"  he  muttered  and  swung  himself  up 
to  the  horse's  back.  "Very  well,"  he  shrugged. 

Elsie  remained  looking  up  at  him,  feeling  as  if  he  had 
flicked  her  face  with  his  crop.  She  seemed  thrust  into 
distance. 

"You're  not  going  —  without  saying  — "  came  from  her 
with  longing. 

"Saying  what?"  he  asked,  his  look  dreary,  enraged. 
"What  is  there  to  be  said?" 

"Don't  be  childish,  Arturo !  Don't  blame  me  for  what 
I  can't  help,"  Elsie  persisted.  "We  must  part  friends  — 
oh,  we  must  always  be  friends !" 

"Will  you  be  at  home  this  afternoon  —  at  home  to 
me?"  he  asked  with  curt  vehemence. 

"I  would,  but  Julie  will  be  packing,  and  the  woman 
who  owns  the  furniture  will  be  there  with  her  inven- 
tory — " 

"Yes,  that  would  be  unfortunate,"  he  replied,  his  suave 
tone  suggesting  still  deeper  rage.  "Well,  then,  there  is 
the  Countess  Longueval  — her  tea.  Will  you  be  there?" 


20  The  Next  Corner 

"I'd  forgotten  that!  Yes,  Arturo,  I'll  manage  surely 
—  I'll  go." 

"That  will  have  to  do  then."  He  sat  up  straight, 
musing  for  a  few  seconds,  then  bent  swiftly  to  her  with  a 
beseeching  look.  "I  suppose  it  will  have  to  do.  I  don't 
suppose  you  would  —  or,  would  you?  —  lunch  with  me 
somewhere,  where  we  could  be  alone?"  He  swayed  down 
closer  and  gripped  her  shoulder  in  a  storm  of  hope. 
"Come  with  me  to-day,"  and  the  whisper  had  fire  in  it. 
"Will  you?  I  know  a  place  — !  Will  you,  Elsie?  On 
this  last  day  will  you  come  with  me,  my  darling?  —  Let 
me  kiss  you,  bid  you  good-by  so?  Oh,  you  owe  me  that 
for  all  my  long  love  and  patience.  Don't  you?  Will  you 
come?  Say  yes,  dear!  Ah,  do  say  it!" 

In  the  morning  sunlight,  in  the  bustling  day,  his  words 
sent  rapture  over  her,  mixed  as  it  was  with  guilt  and 
trouble.  Steadying  herself  against  it,  she  turned  from 
him. 

"No.    No." 

"You  won't?" 

"No." 

"You  don't  love  me!"  He  pushed  her  off  in  a  gentle 
way,  yet  with  his  expressive  fingers  spread  wide  in  the 
force  of  excommunication.  "You  don't  love  me  at  all. 
I  could  die  for  you,  and  you  care  nothing  for  me,  nothing. 
I  don't  believe,"  he  said  with  a  sneer,  "it's  in  you  to  love 
any  man.  You're  a  spirit  —  without  senses." 

"I  hope  you  are  right !"  she  cried,  her  gray  eyes 
alight  and  fixed  steadily  on  him.  "Better  for  me  if  that's 
true !" 

Don  Arturo  sat  quite  still  and  stared  ahead.  When 
he  spoke  again  his  voice  was  thick  and  had  pain  in  it. 
"Remember  this,"  he  said,  remaining  upright,  only  his 
glance  upon  her ;  "you  have  made  me  suffer  what  I  have 
never  suffered  for  a  woman  before!" 

He  touched  the  horse,  went  from  her  at  a  rapid 
trot  and  without  looking  back.  Elsie  watched  him  till 
in  the  perspective  the  opposing  lines  of  blossoms  seemed 


The  Next  Corner  21 

to  make  an  arch  over  him  and  then  fall  behind  him  in  a 
curtain. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  appeared  the  gayest  of  the  group 
at  breakfast.  While  he  loved  Elsie  with  a  stubborn  fire, 
was  savage  and  sick  at  the  thought  of  losing  her,  this 
did  not  shadow  all  moods  nor  interrupt  his  enjoyment  as 
a  man  with  men;  nor  very  soon  prevent  his  meaningless 
kisses  from  brushing  the  ear  and  the  little  finger  of 
Colette  Le  Nours,  an  eighteen-year-old  dancer  worshipped 
on  the  boulevards,  and  who  had  left  her  table  to  join  the 
young  Spaniards  when  they  called  to  her  in  chorus. 

She  was  markedly  different  from  Elsie.  She  had  a 
brightly  painted,  gypsyish  little  face ;  a  rasping  contralto 
voice  which  poured  out  the  coarsest  argot  of  the  Apaches 
in  an  artless  way  that  sent  her  audience  into  delighted 
screams ;  she  also  stuck  out  her  tongue,  or  put  it  in  her 
cheek,  or  wriggled  her  thumb  against  her  buttonlike  nose. 
She  existed  for  Arturo  for  these  rollicking,  few  moments ; 
Elsie  for  many  and  serious  hours  later.  One  had  her 
place  with  him,  though  more  briefly,  quite  as  much  as  the 
other. 

They  were  still  at  the  table  and  Colette  had  turned  her 
back  on  the  rest  for  a  duo  with  "ce  beau  Arturo,"  in 
which  she  was  a  most  businesslike  pursuer  and  he  a  most 
urbane  and  smiling  dodger,  when  Serafin  appeared, 
coming  toward  the  group,  the  unhurried  ease  of  the  Latin 
mixing  with  a  pervading  deference. 

His  place  in  Don  Arturo's  life  was  an  involved  and  in- 
teresting one.  Though  he  received  wages,  he  was  privi- 
leged to  a  spurious  sort  of  intimacy  with  his  employer  — 
a  situation  recognized  amiably  by  the  cousins  present  — 
his  peasant  mother  of  the  mountains  having  supplied  the 
blue-blooded  one  with  his  first  red-blooded  nourishment. 
The  bond  of  affection  between  the  Spanish  ama  and  her 
nursling  is  even  more  lasting  than  that  between  the  chil- 
dren of  our  own  South  and  the  black  mammy,  and  it  can 
extend  to  her  offspring  if  they  are  found  agreeable  or  of 
use.  Serafin's  usefulness  was  evident  in  the  first  look. 


22  The  Next  Corner 

It  seemed  impossible  that  almost  to  a  day  he  was  Ar- 
turo's  age,  for  he  seemed  forty,  —  very  tall,  angular,  with 
a  long,  priestly  face,  bold  features  and  eyes  with  a  Mon- 
golian slant.  They  were  arresting  in  their  queerness, 
those  eyes,  —  so  sunken  that  with  their  wrinkled  lids  but 
slightly  lowered  his  face  seemed  a  saffron  mask ;  when 
they  were  open  they  showed  as  spots  of  fire  in  the  bony 
hollows ;  their  puckers  at  the  lifted,  outer  corners  gave 
his  look,  even  in  repose,  the  speculative  shrewdness  of  a 
fox,  so  that  he  had  earned  this  nickname  and  was  called 
by  his  intimates  "Zorro"  almost  as  often  as  Serafin. 

Coming  of  Basque  stock,  of  which  the  best  business  men 
in  the  Peninsula  are  made,  he  had  none  of  Don  Arturo's 
poetic  sensuality,  very  little  of  his  rooted  weakness  for 
women  that  could  so  unnerve  and  distract  his  life.  He 
Was  as  practical  in  every  instinct  as  a  Birmingham  fac- 
tory owner.  To  this  quality  of  mind  was  added  six  years 
of  business  experience  in  the  stock  markets  of  New  York 
and  Chicago.  His  passion  was  the  accumulation  of 
money.  At  twenty  he  had  left  the  service  of  Don  Ar- 
turo's family  and  gone  to  America  after  it ;  there  he  had 
made  what  to  his  peasant  eyes  was  a  large  fortune,  only 
to  lose  it  almost  at  once  through  greed  in  speculation 
and  had  become  for  a  time  a  nervous  wreck.  Practically 
insolvent,  venomously  disappointed,  he  had  returned  to 
the  post  still  to  be  had  with  his  former  master. 

For  three  years  now,  though  still  an  ailing  man,  he 
had  been  Don  Arturo's  valet,  secretary,  courier ;  his  right 
hand,  eyesight,  cat's-paw,  buffer  or  brain.  He  would  have 
been  his  conscience  and  heart,  too,  if  required.  But  the 
former  was  a  word  he  never  heard  and  would  have  puzzled 
much  about,  and  the  latter  a  province  whose  affairs  were 
so  much  to  Don  Arturo's  liking  that  this  able  assistant 
was  never  permitted  more  than  a  sentry's  peep  through 
the  gate. 

Removing  his  hat  in  a  profound  bow  to  all  at  the  table, 
Serafin  bestowed  a  more  intimate  one  upon  Don  Arturo 
while  remaining  a  short  distance  from  his  chair.  "If  I 


The  Next  Corner  23 

might  speak  to  you,  Senor  Marques?"  he  asked,  some 
significant  thing  most  delicately  conveyed  in  the  tone. 

Arturo  rose,  and  with  excuses  to  his  cousins,  as  polite 
as  if  they  were  all  strangers  at  a  formal  meeting,  moved 
off  with  his  man,  turning  almost  immediately  out  of  sight 
around  a  thickly  hedged  path. 

"You  will  be  interested  in  this,  senor"  Serafin  said 
alertly,  and  taking  a  folded  newspaper  from  his  pocket, 
he  shook  it  out.  His  quiet  eyes  had  their  fox  look  marked 
as  he  laid  the  fanged  nail  of  a  bony  and  tobacco-brown 
finger  on  one  paragraph.  "Mir a!  You  did  not  know, 
senor?" 

Arturo  read  the  few  lines  in  the  Paris  Herald  stating 
that  Robert  Maury  of  the  Ludgate  and  Burmah  Mining 
Corporation  had  been  announced  by  telegraph  as  a  pas- 
senger on  the  Paul  Lecat  from  Singapore  that  had 
docked  at  Marseilles  two  days  before.  He  was  due  in 
Paris  at  an  early  date. 

Colette  Le  Nours  and  every  phase  of  the  life  she  rep- 
resented vanished  from  Arturo's  thoughts  as  if  she  had 
not  existed.  A  blade  seemed  to  twist  through  his  heart. 
Open  desolation  in  his  eyes,  he  fixed  them  upon  Serafin. 

"I  already  know  about  this,"  he  said  lifelessly.  "As 
I  rode  here  I  ran  across  Mrs.  Maury,  and  she  told  me." 

"Ah,  si?"  Serafin  folded  the  newspaper  again. 

Arturo  sat  down  on  one  of  the  benches  against  the 
privet  hedge  and  sank  into  thought.  He  looked  past 
Serafin  for  a  full  moment  and  then  began  to  talk  in  a 
carefully  quiet  tone  and  rapidly,  his  eyes  fixed  ahead, 
only  his  lips  moving  to  the  patting  rise  and  fall  of  one 
hand  against  his  arm.  Serafin  was  listening  as  im- 
movably. He  was  receiving  exact  directions,  and  his 
replies  were  the  brief  ones  of  the  intelligent  agent  who 
reduces  himself  to  a  pair  of  ears. 

They  spoke  in  Spanish,  Arturo  in  the  lisping  Castilian 
of  the  Madrileno,  Serafin  with  a  more  robust  utterance, 
—  that  of  the  Basque  country  mixed  with  a  few  Cuban 
and  South  American  individualisms  picked  up  in  his 


24  The  Next  Corner 

travels.  The  name  of  Mrs.  Sidney  Vrain  and  the  Countess 
Longueval  occurred  frequently,  to  which  Serafin  would 
nod  with  an  alert :  "Si  —  si,  —  senor  —  *t." 

Arturo  stood  up  at  length.  He  gave  a  brief,  sharp 
shrug,  his  expression  dull.  "It  will  be  quite  useless,  prob- 
ably. Only  the  smallest  sort  of  a  chance  that  she  will 
help  me  in  this."  He  went  down  the  path  to  the  res- 
taurant, adding  over  his  shoulder,  "I'll  get  away  from 
here  in  a  few  moments  and  go  home.  You  go  to  Mrs. 
V rain's  at  once.  She'll  be  just  about  rising,  I  imagine. 
Tell  her  not  to  fail  me.  At  four  I'll  expect  her  at  the 
Longuevals'  —  for  a  talk  at  the  end  of  the  corridor,  up- 
stairs —  she  knows." 

Serafin  assured  him  of  obedience,  saluted  and  departed. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  home  of  the  Countess  Longueval  was  one  of  the 
loveliest  of  the  ancient  dwellings  in  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain.  Elsie  was  glad  that  she  was  to  see  it  once  more. 
As  she  made  ready  for  the  tea  she  imagined  herself  in  its 
garden,  a  place  so  quiet  it  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  the 
deep  country  instead  of  a  high-walled  patch  on  a  Paris 
street.  She  saw  its  balconies  set  with  tea  tables,  the 
crinkled  blinds  of  buttercup  color  drawn  high  on  the  open 
windows  so  that  they  were  as  doors  through  which  the 
guests  passed ;  she  saw  the  footmen  in  the  Longueval  buff 
and  silver  and  the  bushes  of  forsythia,  twinkling,  golden, 
making  effective  screens  for  an  occasional  bench  placed 
back  of  them  in  tete-a-tete  seclusion. 

The  flare  of  yellow  in  this  mind  picture  made  her  decide 
to  wear  that  color  on  this  last  day.  Then,  too,  it  was 
one  that  Arturo  thought  charming  for  her.  She  recalled 
his  words  a  few  months  previous  at  a  dance  when  she  had 
worn  a  cloud  of  lemon-colored  tulle  with  beaten  gold 
hoops  in  her  ears  and  a  flash  of  the  same  from  her  girdle. 

"This  color  brings  out  the  yellow  lights  that  always 
lurk  in  gray-hazel  eyes.  I  wish  you'd  wear  it  often, 
Elsie.  When  your  eyes  are  the  pure  gray  your  heart  is 
very  cold  and  careful.  They  say  pleasanter  things  to 
me  —  when  they  are  gold." 

And  with  this  effect  before  her  she  began  to  make  up 
her  face,  —  for  Elsie  was  tout-a-fait  Parisienne  in  the 
frank  use  of  cosmetics.  It  did  not  in  the  least  matter 
that  as  turned  out  by  nature  she  was  a  delicately  lovely 
type,  with  deep  brown  lashes  a  silken  fringe  around  un- 
shadowed eyes,  and  lips  of  coral  pink.  From  the  view- 
point of  her  whim-following  world  a  certain  decadent 

25 


26  The  Next  Corner 

effect  that  could  be  gained  only  by  artifice  was  far  more 
alluring  than  any  ungarnished  attractiveness.  This  was 
smeared  on  real  beauty  as  a  glove  is  put  upon  the  hand. 

So  Elsie  sat  before  her  mirror  with  pots,  pencils  and 
brushes.  She  began  by  covering  her  skin  with  a  white 
cream  and  smoothing  it  down  with  powder.  Melted  black 
pigment  stiffened  her  lashes  into  borders  of  delicately 
individualized  wires  and  wiped  out  their  natural  brown, 
the  most  intriguing  touch  following  in  the  laying  on  of 
bluish  shadows  on  the  lids  so  that  the  eyes  looked  from 
them  lengthened  and  languid.  Rouge  made  the  lobes  of 
the  small  ears  blaze,  and  scarlet  paste  used  freely  on  the 
mouth  had  a  flaunting  invitation.  When  with  patience 
and  care  Elsie  had  disordered  her  hair  into  what  ap- 
peared unstudied  airiness,  the  work  was  done;  and 
ethereal  as  this  hair  truly  was  —  a  pale  jonquil  hue  that 
seemed  dusted  with  white  —  it  deepened  by  contrast  the 
laid-on  worldliness  that  it  framed. 

She  was  satisfied.  She  had  become  used  to  this  changed 
face  with  geranium-red  mouth  and  drugged  looking  eyes 
burning  against  its  deathly  pallor.  She  was  now  of  an 
accepted  type.  She  was  like  all  her  friends. 

Still,  as  Julie,  with  lids  like  fresh  burns  from  weeping 
at  the  prospect  of  parting  from  her,  pinned  a  veil  so  that 
it  lay  like  a  film  scarcely  lower  than  her  brooding  gaze, 
a  speculation  quivered  through  the  calm  of  habit,  a  touch 
of  drollery  pulled  at  the  garish  mouth. 

"Robert  won't  like  me  —  that's  sure.  He  may  even 
ask  me  to  wash  my  face!"  There  was  amused  patronage 
in  the  conclusion:  "He  won't  understand." 

Earlier  arrivals  than  Elsie  had  reached  the  Longueval 
house.  Among  the  first  comers  was  Mrs.  Sidney  Vrain. 
After  a  casual  greeting  to  her  small,  dark-eyed  hostess 
who  flashed  like  a  jeweler's  window  and  whose  whitened 
face  had  the  impudent  prettiness  of  a  marmoset,  she 
sailed  on  her  way  as  one  well  used  to  the  place,  and  at 
the  top  of  the  first  stairway  reached  a  corner  partitioned 


The  Next  Corner  27 

off  by  ancient  tapestries.  It  was  a  spot  arranged  as  a 
lounge.  Liquors  and  seltzer  were  on  a  ledge  against  the 
wall.  There  were  several  small  smoking  tables,  arm- 
chairs and  a  divan  as  wide  as  a  bed. 

The  place  was  empty.  She  had  expected  this.  The 
Marques  de  Burgos  had  a  genius  these  days  for  making 
her  expect  him  and  then,  with  graceful  apologies,  ar- 
riving when  he  pleased.  Mrs.  Vrain  pulled  off  one  yard- 
long,  flesh-colored  glove  of  such  thin  suede  she  gave  the 
effect  of  peeling  the  skin  from  elbow  to  hand,  mixed  her- 
self a  brandy  and  soda,  drained  it  without  pause,  tossed 
the  pillows  to  a  desired  angle  and  with  a  cigarette  taken 
from  her  own  gold  case  —  as  large  as  one  of  the  Tauch- 
nitz  novels  beside  which  she  laid  it  —  threw  herself  upon 
them.  She  smoked  thoughtfully,  an  ill-humored  gaze  fixed 
on  the  turn  of  the  stairs. 

Those  familiar  with  her  would  scarcely  have  known 
that  she  was  annoyed  in  any  special  Way,  for  she  was  a 
chronically  discontented  being  and  showed  it.  Her  walk 
was  always  the  most  indifferent  slouch.  She  would  step 
from  a  motor  and  let  the  fish  tail  of  a  tulle  gown  crawl 
over  yards  of  wet  pavement  or  the  dirt  of  theater  lobbies 
with  no  more  concern  than  if  it  were  a  dishcloth;  she 
always  flung  things  from  her  as  if  they  were  of  no  ac- 
count, —  her  gold  chatelaine  bag  to  her  maid,  or  tips 
to  waiters,  or  her  furs  to  her  footman.  They  were  all 
treated  with  the  soured  sort  of  sullenness  that  was  poi- 
soning her. 

She  felt  she  had  much  to  complain  of.  She  was  forty- 
four.  As  if  that  were  not  bad  enough,  she  looked  it. 
Her  big  body,  in  youth  that  of  a  powerful,  lightly- 
fleshed  goddess,  had  grown  fat  with  the  blowsiness  of  the 
overfed  and  sensuously  inactive;  a  harsh  redness  was 
spread  over  her  skin;  and  veins  that  no  beauty  doctor 
could  rub  out  showed  through  layers  of  powder  over  the 
puffy  cheeks  and  thickened  nose.  There  was  of  course 
the  way  of  self-denial  that  after  prolonged  marches  could 
have  helped  her  back  to  much  of  the  lost  comeliness.  That 


28  The  Next  Corner 

was  not  a  path  with  any  invitation  for  Paula  Vrain.  As 
her  own  words  set  forth: 

"To  cut  out  all  the  delicious  alcohol  pick-me-ups,  and 
the  sweets  and  the  sauces ;  to  keep  walking  and  sweating, 
and  never  knowing  an  easy  moment  at  having  your 
chocolate  in  bed  or  lying  down  in  the  afternoon  with  a 
novel  —  that's  a  bit  too  thick  for  me,  thanks !  I  want 
my  old  figure  and  complexion,  but  I  want  them  while  I 
keep  on  living.  For,  my  dear,  I  must  have  the  fleshpots 
—  I  must,  or  go  balmy  —  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

The  death  of  her  attractiveness  to  men  made  her 
secret  bitterness ;  that  one  man,  once  hers  and  still  loved 
wretchedly  in  silence,  had  slipped  to  the  crowd  who  never 
looked  at  her  any  more  as  a  woman  to  be  desired  made 
its  core. 

Arturo  arrived  at  the  rendezvous  twenty  minutes  late. 
He  came  with  his  unhurried,  Castilian  manner,  voluble 
in  soft-voiced  regret,  intensely  calm.  Yet  the  jealous 
eyes  that  watched  him  irritably  noted  a  difference  from 
his  usual  self.  Under  his  repose  there  was  suspense,  and 
his  skin  had  the  dead  sand-color  that  means  pallor  in  a 
dark  face.  Yes,  something  had  gone  wrong  with  him, 
and  he  had  come  to  her  for  help.  Her  red-brown 
eyes  burned  harder.  She  was  glad  he  was  not  happy; 
that  from  some  cause  he  was  knowing  pain  like  that 
which  she  had  come  to  bear  through  him.  And  yet,  how 
dear  he  was  to  her  still  and  always  would  be! 

It  seemed  to  her  then,  as  so  often  before,  that  powers 
designedly  complicating  life  must  have  had  a  hand  in 
the  blending  of  such  attractiveness  as  Arturo  had. 
There  was  no  effort  on  his  part,  rather  an  amiable  in- 
difference that  could  be  exasperating;  still,  on  meeting 
his  eyes,  or  while  wishing  to  meet  them,  one's  will  felt 
glamour  and  was  held.  And  this  not  only  because  he 
had  almost  more  beauty  than  should  go  to  a  man,  for 
she  had  known  others  as  handsome  who  had  never  stirred 
the  pulses  of  women  as  he  could.  No,  Arturo  seemed  to 
her  the  complete  illustration  of  the  inscrutable  thing 


The  Next  Corner  29 

called  charm.  Else,  —  why  should  she  have  loved  him 
so  terribly,  "have  made",  as  she  had  often  said,  "a  door- 
mat of  herself  for  him",  been  ready  for  the  most  final 
open  recklessness  for  his  sake  and  only  kept  in  bounds 
by  his  smiling  circumspection?  Why?  And  not  only 
that  past  slavery;  why  should  the  mystery  persist  when 
their  affaire  had  a  two-year-old  gravestone  over  it,  so 
that  she  felt  hope  when  he  sought  her  in  the  most  passing 
way,  and  was  only  really  miserable  when  he  took  pains 
to  let  her  see  plainly  the  absolute  death  of  all  passion  for 
her? 

This  unanswerable  "why"  had  brought  her  punctually 
to  a  meeting  with  him  to-day.  And  as  she  watched  him 
light  one  of  his  own  Spanish  cigarettes,  its  strange  per- 
fume —  the  same  that  had  clung  to  the  silver  ribbon  on 
Elsie's  gardenias  —  recalling  their  secret  meetings  of 
other  times,  she  ached  to  spend  her  despondent  heart  in 
one  of  the  fiery  kisses  that  once  had  made  heaven  of  life. 
Gone.  Lost.  Dead.  And  she  was  a  fool! 

With  this  last  reflection  she  sat  up  among  the  pillows 
and  gave  a  hitch  to  her  skirt  to  show  a  slippered  foot 
that  in  spite  of  her  weight,  was  slender  and  delicately 
arched.  "I  came  on  time,"  she  said  flatly  in  the  sulky, 
rugged  voice  that  once  had  fallen  with  a  perverse  sort 
of  pleasure  upon  Arturo's  ears.  "I  don't  flatter  myself 
for  a  moment  that  you  wanted  this  tete-a-tete  for  just 
—  me.  I  can  be  useful  to  you,"  she  mocked.  "What  is 
it?  What  do  you  want?" 

"Don't  trouble  to  say  unkind  things  to  me,  Paula," 
he  said  with  cool  reproach.  "That  sort  of  preface,  to 
which  you  are  so  inclined,  ought  to  have  no  place  with 
friends."  He  leaned  toward  her.  "Anything  you'd  want 
me  to  do  as  a  comrade,  I'd  do.  And  it  is  as  a  good  com- 
rade —  the  only  woman  that  I  know  that  way  —  that  I 
ask  you  to  save  me  to-day." 

"Save  you?"  She  looked  genuinely  concerned.  "Are 
you  in  trouble,  Arturo?  —  real  trouble?  If  you  are,  of 
course  — " 


30  The  Next  Corner 

He  thanked  her  with  a  lift  of  the  brows  as  only  a 
Spaniard  could.  "Not  what  you  would  call  trouble,  per- 
haps. I  don't  need  money  —  and  if  I  did,  I  should  never 
ask  you,  of  course  —  nor  is  there  any  danger  or  disgrace 
threatening  me.  Just  the  same,"  and  desperation  hard- 
ened his  voice,  "I  feel  like  a  man  on  whom  sentence  of 
banishment  has  been  passed.  And  there  is  a  chance  — 
just  one  —  that  you  might  be  able  to  delay  it.  Will  you 
do  this  for  me,  Paula?  Amiga  —  will  you?" 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  the  tone  icy,  for  usefulness 
to  him  as  a  friend  —  and  he  had  emphasized  the  amiga 
—  was  as  sawdust  on  her  lips. 

"It's  asking  you  to  be  very  big  and  unselfish,"  Ar- 
turo  confessed,  "but  I  know,  Paula,  that  you  can  be  like 
that  —  for  me !  It  is  asking  you  to  help  me  to  a  little 
happiness  with  a  woman  I  love,  before  she  goes  out  of 
my  life  forever." 

She  looked  at  him  through  a  cold  rage.  Yet  as  he 
had  said  "for  him,"  so  wholly  was  she  still  his,  she 
knew  she  was  going  to  listen  to  more;  even,  it  might  be, 
help  him  to  his  desire,  though  it  contributed  another 
thorn  to  her  unrest. 

"I  know  who  you  mean  —  at  least  I  think  I  do.  Elsie 
Maury.  And  yet  I  can't  believe  you'd  have  —  have  — 
the  cheek  —  to  ask  me  — !"  She  broke  off,  the  fire  of 
misery  in  her  look. 

Arturo  knew  from  experience  how  to  meet  the  various 
phases  of  her  sick  resentment.  The  only  thing  she  could 
not  endure  from  him  was  aloofness  that  might  end  even 
friendship  between  them.  He  drew  away,  a  chilled,  de- 
liberate gaze  studying  her. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  ask  you?" 

"Because  I  hate  her!" 

"Why  should  you  hate  her?" 

"Because  you  don't,  I  suppose,"  she  said  thickly. 

"Is  she  to  blame  for  that?  Why  not  hate  me,  if  you 
must  hate  some  one?" 

"Oh,  you  make  me  seem  such  a  fool  — !"     Exasper- 


The  Next  Corner  31 

ated,  she  drew  herself  nearer  the  decanter  and  lifted  it 
over  a  glass. 

^  Arturo's  fingers,  with  the  strength  that  delicate  things 
sometimes  surprisingly  have,  the  force  of  wire  instead  of 
iron,  went  about  her  wrist.  "You've  had  enough  brandy. 
It  excites  you.  Wait  till  we  finish,  Paula.  Then  I'll 
drink  with  you  —  in  gratitude  if  you  are  kind ;  in  a  prop- 
erly chastened  spirit,  if  you  are  not.  The  latter  is  the 
more  likely  —  I  can  see!" 

She  pulled  her  wrist  from  him  and  sat  back  obediently. 
"Am  I  permitted  a  cigarette?"  she  flashed,  and  lighted 
one,  her  hand  trembling  against  her  will.  "I  can't 
imagine  what  you  see  in  her,"  followed,  venom  in 
the  shut-in  tone. 

"Of  course  you  don't!  But  does  that  matter?  It 
isn't  necessary  —  is  it?" 

"It's  her  blondness  that  gets  you.  For  she's  not 
pretty.  Not  what  you'd  really  call  pretty!" 

"No,  she's  worse  than  that." 

"She  hasn't  the  ghost  of  a  figure!" 

"I  hate  figures,"  said  Arturo  serenely. 

She  winced,  conscious  of  the  flesh  above  her  laced-in 
waist.  "Then  you  are  different  from  most  men,"  she  re- 
torted. 

"You  are  beginning  to  flatter  me." 

She  sat  very  silent  after  this,  smoking  in  a  busy,  ner- 
vous way,  and  suddenly  the  tears  stole  down  her  cheeks. 
As  she  threw  the  cigarette  from  her  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  open  hands,  hands  so  illustrative  of  her  life  — 
burdened  with  rings,  fleshy,  with  beautiful  nails  and  nico- 
tine-stained finger  tips  —  a  quiver  of  real  sympathy  went 
over  Arturo's  face.  He  left  his  chair  and  sat  on  the  divan, 
close  to  her. 

"My  dear  Paula,  my  dear  girl!"  He  drew  down  one 
of  the  hands  and  patted  it,  while  with  the  other  she 
pulled  from  her  girdle  an  expensive  handkerchief  that 
seemed  a  rag  of  lace  and  dabbed  carefully  her  blackened 
lashes.  "What's  the  use?  I  want  your  friendship,  I 


32  The  Next  Corner 

want  it  terribly,  and  as  a  friend  I'd  do  anything  on 
earth  for  you.  I  am  not  worth  the  other,  my  dear.  I 
tell  you  that  honestly.  I  am  not  worth  it." 

"What  do  I  care,"  Paula  demanded  wildly,  "if  you 
are  worth  it  or  not?  It  wasn't  your  worth  that  began 
it,  heaven  knows!  It's  just  —  that  I  can't  —  seem  to 
get  over  it  as  you  have."  She  flung  her  arm  suddenly 
about  his  neck.  "Haven't  you  any  love  left  for  me  — 
none?  I  am  so  miserable,  worn  out  with  longing  for 
what  has  gone.  Nothing  matters  to  me.  I  hate  every- 
thing! Do  kiss  me  once,  for  memory?"  she  begged 
brokenly. 

He  drew  down  her  arm  gently.  Her  eyes  fell  under 
his  serious  gaze.  She  knew  the  most  final  defeat. 

"Too  much  in  love  with  your  Elsie  to  forget  her  for 
even  a  moment?"  she  mocked. 

Arturo  stood  up.  "It  was  a  mistake  to  come  to  you, 
Paula.  I  did  not  know — "  He  broke  off  and  added 
with  great  kindness:  "I'm  sorry  you  are  so  unhappy.  I 
cannot  help  it.  And  remember  this  —  I  am  unhappy, 
too."  As  he  reached  the  entrance  curtain  he  paused 
sharply  and  came  back.  "One  thing  I  want  to  make 
very  clear  to  you,  though.  Don't  suppose  from  what 
I've  said  that  Elsie  and  I  have  had  an  affaire.  Oh,  no, 
indeed,"  he  said  vehemently.  "Make  no  mistake  about 
that.  She  has  been  a  bit  —  provocative,  shall  we  call 
it?  —  but  a  model  in  wives,  I  assure  you!  There  was 
just  a  chance  that  you — "  He  looked  down  at  her 
thoughtfully.  "No  matter  —  that's  past!" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  saying  she's  going  out  of  your 
life  and  all  that  rot?"  Paula  suddenly  demanded,  her 
glance  not  meeting  his.  "Has  her  mother  called  her  back 
to  America?"  Her  voice  showed  new  hope.  She  had  not 
dreamed  of  such  a  satisfactory  result  from  her  anony- 
mous letter  to  Nina.  "Is  she  sailing  at  once?" 

"Yes,  but  her  mother  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  How 
could  you  think  that  what  that  wax  doll  might  say 
would  matter?  Ah,  no;  it's  her  husband.  Quite  a  dif- 


The  Next  Corner  33 

ferent  tea  party,  as  you  English  say.  He  gets  here  to- 
night and  by  to-morrow  she  will  be  on  her  way  to 
America."  His  voice  had  been  growing  dull.  "As 
surely  as  I  stand  here,  I  know  that  once  Elsie  goes  I  will 
never  see  her  again." 

"You  know  it?"  she  shrugged  in  angry  impatience, 
"how  can  you  know  it?" 

"I  feel  it.  Premonitions  of  that  sort  with  me  are  never 
wrong." 

"America  is  only  five  days  away  on  a  fast  ship  — " 

"I  shall  never  go  to  America.     I  know  that,  too." 

The  sound  of  voices  below  had  been  strengthening  — 
louder  laughter,  dashes  of  music,  and  now  stragglers 
were  mounting  the  stairs.  Paula,  as  she  regained  her 
composure,  even  felt  a  spurious  sort  of  happiness.  With 
an  emphasis  of  gesture  she  mixed  herself  an  especially 
strong  brandy  and  soda,  of  which  she  felt  in  need. 

"Come  here,  Arturo.  Sit  down  again,"  she  said 
briskly,  and  as  he  did  so  she  gave  him  a  hardy  grin. 
"I'm  a  silly  ass  sometimes !  Don't  mind  what  I  said. 
It's  true  that  I've  somehow  kept  on  remembering  what 
you've  forgotten,  and  at  times  it  gets  back  at  me,  gives 
me  an  awful  knock,  but  when  I  said  I  hated  everything 
—  I  was  a  liar.  Oh,  there's  a  lot  to  live  for  yet,  even 
without  a  grande  passion.  This,  for  instance,"  and  she 
lifted  the  glass.  "Now  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?  If 
it  isn't  too  hard  — !  You  don't  want  me  to  abduct  the 
immaculate  one  for  you,  I  hope?" 

Arturo  seized  her  arms.  She  would  have  given  a  good 
part  of  her  wealth  to  have  called  there  for  herself  the 
unabashed  longing  that  in  a  second  transformed  his 
face. 

"I've  decided  to  go  on  to  Spain  with  my  cousins  to- 
night. They'll  go  straight  to  Burgos,  but  I'll  go  to  the 
mountains,  to  El  Miradero.  All  I  ask  you  to  do  is  to 
accept  my  invitation  to  come  up  there  in  a  few  days  for 
a  fortnight  and  persuade  Elsie  to  ask  her  husband  to 
let  her  wait  over  and  come  with  you." 


34  The  Next  Corner 

"That's  all?"  she  asked  in  mocking  dismay.  "A 
pretty  large  order,  I  call  it!" 

"You  can  manage  it,  Paula.  Get  Elsie  to  ask  her 
husband  to  let  her  stay  behind  him  just  long  enough  for 
her  to  see  Spain  —  she  never  has  —  and  both  of  you 
come  a  few  days  later.  Sidney  won't  be  back  from 
yachting  for  another  month,  so  there's  nothing  to  pre- 
vent your  coming.  And  you,  who  know  El  Miradero, 
who  loved  its  beauty  —  surely  you  can  tempt  her  to  make 
this  effort.  Only  delay  her  return  to  America!  That's 
all  I  want.  I  don't  look  beyond  that.  Probably,"  he 
added  bitterly,  "I  could  bear  her  going  then,  when  I'd 
got  used  to  it.  I  feel  all  astray  with  myself  now,  from 
the  suddenness  of  it." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  Paula  drawled  thoughtfully, 
"I'm  leaving  for  a  few  days'  visit  to  Sidney's  sister  at 
Bordeaux  —  you  know  she  married  oodles  of  money  — 
all  that  wine  business  down  there.  And  I  thought  that 
after  it  I'd  have  a  little  whirl  at  San  Sebastian  before 
coming  back  here  — " 

"Well,  there  you  are!"  came  joyously  from  Arturo. 
"Just  keep  to  your  plans.  Elsie  could  join  you  at  San 
Sebastian  —  directly  en  route  to  me !" 

Paula  sipped  and  thought  again  silently  for  a  mo- 
ment, "Quite  easy,"  she  said.  "But  let  me  tell  you 
something  —  I  think  you're  a  fool  to  get  any  deeper  into 
this  affaire.  Elsie  Maury's  the  sort  to  play  around  fire 
—  let  her  get  burned  though,  and  it  would  be  a  tragedy 
for  you  both.  She  has  the  enlarged  kind  of  conscience. 
I've  met  other  Americans  like  that  —  an  unfinished  race ! 
Will  you  take  my  advice  and  let  her  alone?  Or,"  she 
added  slowly  with  some  intense  meaning,  "will  you  risk 
having  her  on  your  hands  for  life?" 

"You  sound  clairvoyant.  I've  told  you  I  have  no 
plans  —  I  only  want  to  delay  her  going."  He  said  this 
sadly,  musingly. 

She  moved  to  replace  the  glass.  A  smiling  and  faintly 
sinister  cunning  passed  over  her  face.  When  she  turned 


The  Next  Corner  35 

to  him  her  eyes  were  businesslike.  "All  right  then,  if 
you  insist.  I'll  do  what  I  can." 

She  stood  up,  powdered  her  nose,  used  her  lip  stick 
and  lifted  the  skinlike  gloves.  "Will  you  see  her  now  — 
she  must  be  here  —  or  do  you  want  me  to  see  her  first?" 

"You  speak  to  her  first."  The  words  were  faint  and 
thick  with  feeling.  He  followed  her  into  the  corridor, 
laid  his  hand  on  her  arm,  and  she  felt  its  burning 
through  the  chiffon  sleeve.  "Get  her  to  come  with  you 
to  El  Miradero,  and  Paula  —  I'll  be  your  servant  as  long 
as  I  live!" 

"Thanks,"  she  said  drily,  adding:  "I  mean  to  help 
you  —  thoroughly.  That's  the  way  I  am ;  absolutely 
indifferent,  or  a  mistress  of  detail  who  spares  no  pains !" 

As  she  went  down  the  stairs,  her  eyes,  steadily  lifted 
to  his,  were  smiling  in  their  kindest  way. 

She  found  Elsie,  in  the  midst  of  her  golden  gown,  seated 
close  to  a  great  vase  of  lilies  in  an  inner  room. 

A  boyish  Hindoo,  who  was  the  son  of  a  Maharajah 
and  very  much  the  fashion  of  that  spring,  hung  about 
her,  worshipping  her  fairness,  as  he  often  did.  He  had 
been  bending  his  turbanned  head  to  talk  softly  to  her 
for  the  last  ten  minutes,  but  his  slumbering  black  eyes 
were  without  content.  He  could  see  that  she  scarcely 
heard  him.  Her  gaze  wandered ;  her  replies  were  absent. 
He  knew  that  when  the  Marques  de  Burgos  came  she 
would  be  different,  awakened;  and  that  for  the  rest  of 
the  time  there  the  young  Spaniard  would  keep  close  to 
her. 

Of  the  specific  pain  of  this  waiting  to  Elsie  he  did  not 
guess.  It  was  her  last  chance  to  see  Arturo.  She  had 
come  early,  expecting  to  find  him  there,  eager  to  make 
the  most  of  every  moment  with  her.  And  -as  yet  he  had 
not  sought  her.  As  his  last  words  kept  coming  back  to 
her,  she  began  to  believe  she  would  not  see  him  at  all: 
"You  have  made  me  suffer  what  I  have  never  suffered 
for  a  woman  before,"  he  had  said.  And  so,  perhaps  that 
was  to  be  her  last  memory  of  him  through  the  future  far 


36  The  Next  Corner 

away  from  him?  Well,  if  it  had  to  be  — !  She  must 
conquer  herself.  It  was  only  accepting  the  inevitable  a 
little  sooner  than  she  had  expected. 

Her  depression  had  grown  fixed  when  Paula  Vrain 
sailed  up  to  her,  aglow  and  smiling  in  a  way  that  was 
unusual.  She  greeted  the  Hindoo  and  then  put  her  arm 
about  Elsie's  waist,  schoolgirl  fashion. 

"Come  along  o'  me,  dear.  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with 
you,"  and  when  she  had  whisked  her  to  a  quiet  spot  be- 
hind a  stairway  she  hurried  on  without  preface:  "I'm 
going  to  Arturo's  shooting  place  up  in  the  Cantabrian 
mountains.  He's  often  told  you  of  his  little  house,  El 
Miradero.  Now  you're  coming  too,  aren't  you?" 

"Why,  no." 

"No?     Why  not?" 

"This  is  the  first  I've  heard  of  it,  and  besides  — " 

"Oh,  I  know  I"  Paula  rattled  on.  "He  meant  it  to  be  a 
piquant  surprise  to-day.  He  told  me  to  insist  on  your 
coming  with  me.  I'm  not  to  take  'no'  for  an  answer!" 

"When  did  he  tell  you  that?" 

"A  moment  ago.  He's  here.  He  told  me  all  about 
how  you  were  expecting  to  leave  to-night  for  America 
and  the  poor  boy  is  too  miserable  to  ask  you,  himself. 
So,  as  I  and  a  few  others  —  just  who  they  are  I  don't 
know ;  Spanish  probably  —  are  to  be  there,  he  begged 
me  to  come  to  you  as  his  missionary.  Don't  disappoint 
him,  Elsie !  Get  another  furlough  from  your  husband  — 
just  two  weeks  more.  I'm  going  for  a  few  days  to  San 
Sebastian  and  will  motor  from  there  to  El  Miradero. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  it's  so  lovely!"  she  ran  on  with  an  en- 
thusiasm that  was  secretly  fatiguing  her.  "All  of  Spain 
is  worth  while  —  so  romantic  —  so  queer !  It  would  be 
a  burning  shame  to  go  back  to  the  States  without  seeing 
it  —  and  under  such  conditions  !  —  In  the  towns  —  and 
we  two  might  stop  over  a  night  or  two  on  our  way  back 
—  there  are  the  serenos,  as  they  call  the  night  watch- 
men, in  long  cloaks  and  hoods  and  carrying  lanterns,  who 
sing  a  drowsy  sort  of  song  that  all's  well  and  clear  — 


The  Next  Corner  37 

for  all  the  world  like  an  opera  scene.    The  tune  goes  like 
this  — "  and  she  hummed  it : 


F&I  r  c  _f_i 

-    f  T    F=j 

it     * 

see 

"The  mantillas  are  lovely  too !  And  the  boinas  — 
they're  the  scarlet  caps  of  the  countrymen  —  and  oh, 
the  masses  of  carnations  of  every  tint  that  one  sees 
everywhere  —  the  girls  go  along  with  them  stuck  in  a 
corner  of  their  mouths,  and  the  men  in  their  hats,  and 
I've  even  seen  them  sticking  out  of  the  guns  of  the 
carabineros! 

"You  see  I  was  at  El  Miradero  three  years 
ago.  It's  up  on  a  terribly  rough,  steep  mountain.  You 
seem  at  the  end  of  the  world,  looking  down  through  the 
clouds.  A  gorgeous  view!  You've  never  known  what 
solitude  and  stillness  mean  until  you  stand  there.  Mira- 
dero means  watch  tower,  and  that's  exactly  what  it  is. 
Not  a  thing  passes  down  that  mountain  road  but  a  huge, 
jingling  mule  coach  that  Arturo  relies  on  altogether,  — 
he  hasn't  a  horse  or  vehicle  on  the  place.  You  know 
he's  deadly  poor  and  he  goes  up  there  to  the  simplest  life. 
During  the  summers  his  mother  and  sister  live  at  an 
ancestral,  awfully  run-down  country  place  about  five 
miles  away.  This  is  the  only  time  in  the  whole  year  that 
they  have  a  chance  to  be  with  Arturo,  and  when  he's 
alone  they  drive  over  in  an  ancient  barouche  to  see  him, 
or  he  goes  on  a  rough  tramp  to  them. 

"I  got  a  squint  at  them  once,  and  I  assure  you  it  did 
me  for  all  time!  The  old  marquesa,  Dona  Jacinta, 
looked  for  all  the  world  like  some  queen's  marble  effigy 
that  had  got  slowly  off  its  tomb  and  robed  itself  in  the 
most  solemn  black.  The  sister,  too  —  Magdalena  —  is 
the  most  amazing  stick!  She's  five  years  older  than 
Arturo  and  spends  most  of  her  life  on  her  knees  in  the 


38  The  Next  Corner 

great  cathedral  at  Burgos.  Servants  —  a  pack  of  them 
that  I'd  like  to  bet  are  honored  to  serve  for  next  to 
nothing  —  trail  about  after  them,  carrying  their  prayer 
books  and  reticules  and  scent  bottles  and  little  parasols. 
But  you  won't  be  bored  by  the  family.  They  never  appear 
unless  sure  that  Arturo  is  absolutely  alone  and  uncon- 
taminated  by  his  friends. 

"Oh,  you've  no  idea  how  fascinating  he  is  at  El  Mira- 
dero !  So  simple,  so  real,  in  the  roughest  of  clothes  — 
exactly  like  a  boy  on  a  holiday !  And  all  Spaniards  are 
at  their  best  once  you  step  under  their  roof.  —  I'll  fetch 
my  new  car  and  Athenee,  so  even  if  I  crowd  the  little 
house  you  and  I  will  have  all  the  comforts.  You  needn't 
bother  bringing  a  maid,  you  see.  Athenee  will  do  every- 
thing for  us  both.  —  Just  a  two  weeks'  entrancing 
Spanish  holiday,  Elsie,  and  as  the  Vance  Hamiltons  are 
sailing  about  then  for  New  York,  why  not  get  your  pas- 
sage on  the  same  ship?  Now  —  are  you  game?  Is  it  a 

go?" 

Elsie  had  allowed  herself  to  be  carried  on  by  the 
stream  of  words.  They  unfolded  alluring  pictures  before 
her  and  eased  her  heart.  Arturo  was  close  to  her,  think- 
ing of  her,  and  she  felt  sure  this  mountain  visit  was  a 
quickly  arranged  plan  so  that  he  might  not  lose  her  at 
once.  Of  course  she  could  not  go  —  and  how  she  longed 
to !  —  but  it  gave  meaning  back  to  life  that  he  had  not 
gone  from  her  in  rage,  leaving  her  with  an  aching  sense 
of  emptiness  and  futility. 

Paula,  who  had  declared  that  she  was  not  pretty, 
realized  unwillingly  in  that  moment  how  she  was  some- 
thing more  even  than  beautiful.  She  had  never  seen  a 
face  so  changefully  vivid.  She  loved  and  understood 
music,  and  as  Elsie  sat  there,  absorbed,  she  saw  in  the 
veiled  eyes  ardors  that  touched  her,  as  in  sublime  har- 
monies, —  the  burning  trouble  of  the  overture  to  "Tristan 
and  Isolde,"  the  renunciation  that  floated,  oncoming  and 
receding,  through  the  Meditation  of  Thai's. 

"I  can't  go."    Elsie  said  this  without  force,  yet  posi- 


The  Next  Corner  39 

tively.  "And  it  may  be  years  before  I  see  Paris  again." 
A  'cello  in  the  distance  was  playing  Rudolph's  attic 
song  from  "La  Boheme."  As  she  listened,  a  pang  went 
over  her  face.  "It's  all  wrong,  of  course.  I'm  —  dam- 
aged! I  should  not  have  stayed  here  to  become  what  I 
am.  I  should  have  insisted  on  going  to  Burmah  to 
Robert.  I  didn't.  Then  I  grew  to  love  it  here  too  much. 
And  now  it's  punishing  me.  I  want  it  —  and  nothing 
else.  I  dread  what  I'm  going  to.  I've  grown  away  from 
it  all."  Her  lips  came  shut  on  a  sharp  sigh.  "But  I've 
got  to  go." 

"Tell  me  why,"  Paula  demanded. 

"That's  my  life.  This  has  been  my  playtime.  My 
husband  gets  here  to-night.  We  leave  at  once.  I'm  all 
packed.  I'm  going." 

"Going  when  you  don't  want  to?     What  rubbish!" 

"I  ought  to  want  to,"  Elsie  protested,  "and  in  one 
way,  somehow,  I  do.  My  husband  is  one  of  the  kindest 
men  in  the  world,  Paula.  I'll  go  home  with  him  and 
never  let  him  know  that  it's  an  awful  pull  to  leave  — 
what  I've  grown  used  to." 

For  a  while  they  sat  silent,  Paula  pouting  and  som- 
nolent. Elsie's  face,  showing  each  fugitive  thought  in- 
tensely in  its  passing,  looked  moody  and  driven  as  she 
began,  dreamily,  to  speak  again: 

"I  wonder  how  I'll  feel  when  I'm  really  gone? —  I 
wonder !  .  .  .  I've  been  happier  in  Paris  than  I  ever  was 
in  my  whole  life,  except  when  —  I  had  my  baby." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did  have  a  baby;  I  remember  your  tell- 
ing me,"  Paula  said,  vaguely  polite. 

"Letty.  .  .  .  Almost  three  —  when  she  died."  The 
deep  thrill  in  the  simple  words  gave  them  majesty.  "I 
haven't  missed  her  here  as  I  will  again  in  America.  If 
I  were  only  going  back  —  to  her !" 

"Of  course,"  came  from  Paula  through  a  bitten  yawn. 
"But,  d'you  know,  I  never  felt  that  way  about  my  two? 
The  girl's  a  little  liar  and  a  peacock,  and  the  boy's  a 
glutton,"  she  peacefully  declared. 


40  The  Next  Corner 

Elsie  felt  herself  draw  in,  rebuffed  and  chilled  by  the 
words,  by  the  whole  air  of  the  speaker's  big  body,  — 
detached,  lounging,  bored. 

After  another  dead  pause  Paula  gave  a  lunge  up  and 
straightened.  "Well !  —  So  you'll  really  go  without 
ever  seeing  El  Miradero?" 

"I  must." 

"You're  tiresome !  —  talking  as  if  you  can't  please 
your  husband  and  yet  have  your  own  way.  You're  not 
so  dull,"  she  drawled  with  mocking  astonishment.  "Put 
it  to  him  that  you've  not  seen  Spain,  that  there  will 
never  be  a  chance  like  this  again  —  as  there  never  will ! 
—  then  swear  to  sail  home  with  the  Vance  Hamiltons 
in  about  two  weeks  or  so.  Can't  you  do  that?" 

"No !" 

"I  could  —  and  I'm  not  a  quick-witted  Yankee.  Do 
have  a  shy  at  it  anyway  —  for  my  sake,"  she  urged, 
adding  as  she  stood  up,  "There's  Arturo.  I'll  send  him 
to  you,"  and  she  slouched  away,  swinging  her  bag. 


CHAPTER   V 

IT  was  close  to  five  o'clock  when  a  taxicab  stopped 
before  the  apartment  house  on  the  Rue  de  Chaillot  from 
which  Elsie  had  set  forth  a  half  hour  earlier  for  the 
Longueval  tea.  A  cowhide  trunk,  of  shining  darkness 
from  use  and  mottled  with  the  gay  labels  of  the  Orient, 
was  strapped  upon  it;  a  few  valises  of  the  same  sort 
banked  the  interior.  At  a  glance  they  were  all  a  man's 
belongings,  and  the  owner,  Robert  Maury,  sat  among 
them. 

He  was  in  tweeds  of  a  few  years'  previous  cut  that  hung 
upon  him  in  an  overloose  way.  With  skin  browned  to 
coffee  color,  he  looked  healthy  in  spite  of  the  emaciation 
that  had  come  from  hard  work  and  a  wasting  strain  on 
the  body  through  great  and  humid  heat. 

He  was  a  big  man,  lean,  flexible,  with  black  hair 
that  had  the  glitter  of  gray  on  some  of  its  small  ripples. 
His  shoulders  were  spare,  very  broad  and  so  absolutely 
level  they  were  bladelike ;  with  them  went  the  torso  of  one 
who  has  spent  much  of  his  life  in  the  saddle,  —  swung 
back,  so  that  as  he  walked,  and  even  through  a  coat,  a 
cleft  would  appear  along  the  spine  between  the  powerful 
muscles  ridged  on  each  side.  He  had  an  impulsive,  jerky 
way  of  moving,  not  without  grace,  and  this  showed  as 
he  plunged  down  his  head  to  give  a  glance  of  inquiring 
interest  at  the  windows  of  the  house  before  which  the  cab 
had  stopped. 

"Entresol  —  the  floor  above  the  street  —  she  often 
said  that  in  her  letters,"  he  thought,  his  look  tenderly 
quizzical  as  he  added:  "With  the  pink  ruffled  blinds,  of 
course.  That  must  be  it.  She's  there." 

He  had  grown  used  to  humming  and  whistling  at  his 

41 


42  The  Next  Corner 

work  in  the  solitudes,  and  as  he  sprang  out  he  wanted  to 
sing,  wanted  to  shout  up  to  the  near-by  windows  with  the 
rosy  blinds,  "Elsie  —  hi — oh!"  as  he  often  had  when 
riding  home  to  her  in  the  old  mining  days  in  the  American 
Northwest. 

He  checked  the  desire,  as  he  had  been  subduing  so  many 
of  his  impulses  to  the  formality  of  shipboard  since  em- 
barking at  Singapore.  He  was  in  Paris,  its  exquisite  and 
permanent  finish  the  result  of  a  dozen  centuries ;  no  longer 
an  individual  in  a  wilderness,  he  was  one  of  a  vast  and 
conservative  herd,  ruled  by  herd  laws  that  made  all  move 
in  public  with  the  one  step  and  the  one  composed  look 
whatever  the  heart  might  feel,  whether  of  good  or  ill.  A 
restraint  from  this  consciousness  was  growing  every  mo- 
ment. 

So  instead  of  shouldering  most  of  his  luggage  as  he 
would  have  liked,  he  permitted  the  professor-like  con- 
cierge, with  side  whiskers  and  alpaca  cap,  to  carry  it  up. 
And  when  this  was  done,  instead  of  telling  the  cocker  what 
a  treat  to  eyes  tired  of  Asia  was  his  face,  like  a  big, 
pink  and  white  cherry,  his  white  glazed  top  hat  and  the 
full-blown  tulip  in  his  tightly  buttoned  light  overcoat,  he 
contented  himself  with  bestowing  on  him  a  pourboire  that 
brought  the  hat  off  in  an  emotional  flourish,  since  it  was 
an  appreciation  far  more  to  his  liking  than  any  returned 
wanderer's  spoken  enthusiasm  would  have  been. 

"Ah,  ces  Americains!  Toujours  genereaux!"  he  splut- 
tered joyously  as  he  climbed  back  to  his  seat. 

Robert  found  Julie  at  the  open  door  of  the  apartment, 
staring  at  his  luggage.  She  removed  the  stare  to  him,  and 
before  he  could  speak  began  a  scurry  of  surprised  sen- 
tences which  Robert's  school  French  went  limping  after: 

Oh,  what  ill  luck  that  Monsieur  Maury  had  not  in- 
formed madame  that  he  was  coming  earlier  than  he  had 
previously  stated !  —  Madame's  trunks  were  all  ready, 
and  a  truck  from  the  hotel  around  the  corner  was  to  come 
for  them  after  dinner  and  take  them  to  the  train  —  but 
madame  was  out!  Madame  would  not  of  course  have 


The  Next  Corner  43 

gone  — oh,  not  at  all  for  a  single  second !  —  if  she  had 
dreamed  of  monsieur's  coming  so  very  far  ahead  —  but 
would  monsieur  be  so  good  as  to  come  right  in  to  the 
salon?  —  and  it  was  this  way,  if  he  pleased  —  Ah,  was 
that  his  foot?  —  What  a  misfortune!  —  The  stingy, 
Austrian  lessee  of  the  flat  had  already  turned  off  the  elec- 
tricity, so  would  he  be  very  careful  and  keep  along  by  the 
wall  as  the  hall  was  so  dark  and  so  full  of  madame's 
things  —  ah,  that  was  well !  She  would  pull  up  the  salon 
blinds  now,  and  clear  a  chair  for  monsieur  —  like  that! 
—  And  would  he  not  have  some  tea  or  coffee  or  sherry  or 
whiskey  —  as  there  was  some  left  of  everything  —  while 
he  waited  for  madame? 

Robert  had  followed  her  obediently  through  the  almost 
black  hall,  stubbing  his  toe  against  one  low  trunk  and 
his  elbow  against  a  high  one.  Trunks.  Only  trunks  to 
greet  him!  He  found  himself  looking  at  them  in  stupe- 
faction. Elsie  was  not  there,  but  her  trunks  —  and 
surely  there  were  a  dozen  of  them  —  were  like  hillocks  in 
the  place.  The  warmth  sank  out  of  his  blood  as  he  gazed 
about  the  strange  room  from  which  every  personal  pos- 
session of  Elsie's  had  disappeared.  A  chilling  sense  of 
intrusion  and  detachment  crept  over  him. 

When  he  had  found  that  he  could  come  hours  earlier 
than  his  telegram  had  stated,  he  had  not  hesitated  to 
hurry  on,  impelled  to  it  by  one  picture,  —  the  delight  of 
standing  suddenly  before  Elsie,  seeing  her  wheel  to  him  in 
surprise  with  the  well-remembered  little  squeal  of  joy  that 
she  used  to  give  sometimes ;  this  to  be  followed  by  her 
childish  jump  into  his  arms  —  for  she  had  always  been 
much  of  a  child  with  him  —  when  she  would  croon  into 
his  neck  at  the  delight  of  meeting.  It  was  so  he  had  re- 
membered her. 

He  sat  down,  very  meekly,  it  seemed  to  Julie.  She 
would  have  liked  him  better  if  he  had  shown  temper  at  his 
wife's  absence.  That  would  have  been  unreasonable,  of 
course,  but  Julie  liked  men  to  be  very  unreasonable  in 
their  demands  on  the  love  of  women.  She  did  not  realize 


44  The  Next  Corner 

that  he  was  dazed  by  a  doubt  that  had  come  with  full 
clearness  before  him  for  the  first  time.  Would  he  find 
his  wife  changed?  Not  only  changed  in  small  things; 
would  Elsie  be  a  different  sort  of  woman?  He  had  had 
glimmers  of  this  possibility  often  before  but  had  been  too 
busy  and  too  tired  for  progressive  analysis  in  his  reveries 
over  her  hasty,  mildly  affectionate,  sometimes  lengthy  and 
sometimes  brief  letters.  He  had  always'  seen  her  as  she 
was  in  the  photograph  that  stood  on  the  bureau  in  his 
bungalow,  —  her  pale  hair,  with  the  look  of  whitish  dust 
upon  it,  parted  over  her  serene  brow  and  knotted  low;  a 
round-necked  frock  showing  the  swaying  throat  above 
which  the  small  head  was  poised  so  winningly ;  about  her 
the  purity  that  had  always  suggested  to  him  the  restful- 
ness  of  a  church,  the  light  of  tapers,  lilies  in  pale  hands. 
So  she  was  in  that  picture  and  so  she  had  seemed  to  him 
from  the  beginning  when  he  had  met  her  just  past  child- 
hood among  her  mother's  card-playing,  cocktail-drinking 
set,  pensive  and  interested,  uncritical  of  what  her  deeply 
gray  eyes  rested  on,  yet  separate  from  it. 

And  now !  —  These  trunks  ?  This  maid  with  the  cun- 
ning and  schooled  look  whose  study  of  him  his  sharp  eyes 
had  noted?  Most  of  all,  the  old,  soaked-in  fragrance  in 
the  air  —  not  of  flowers,  for  to  that  he  would  have  re- 
sponded —  but  of  some  cloying  essence  related  to  the 
sense-awaking,  muscadine  sweetness  of  the  East  used  by 
the  native  women  who  danced  and  bargained,  or  bar- 
gained without  dancing?  Slightly  as  he  had  known  the 
Cyprian  world,  and  that  only  through  curiosity  at  long 
intervals,  he  felt  an  aura  of  distaste  go  over  him  to  be 
reminded  of  it  even  by  a  perfume,  on  entering  the  home 
that  had  been  his  wife's  for  three  years. 

"Where  has  Madame  Maury  gone?"  He  asked  this 
very  clearly. 

"Oh,  merely  to  a  large  tea  at  the  Countess  Longueval's 
on  the  Rue  de  Lille,  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  river," 
Julie  hurried  on,  anxious  to  help  her  mistress,  for  the 
open  scrutiny  of  this  man's  light-blue  eyes  began  to  im- 


The  Next  Corner  45 

press  her.  "Ah,  it  was  the  last  chance  to  say  good-by  to 
so  many  friends,  monsieur.  Madame  is  so  much  a  fa- 
vorite! Ah,  truly  she  has  many  friends  to  lament  her 
going.  As  for  me,"  and  the  sincere  tears  showed,  "I  can- 
not think  of  what  my  life  will  be  without  my  adorable 
young  madame.  Desolate!  Nothing  —  nothing  at  all! 
All,  le  bon  Dieu!" 

Robert's  hand  went  toward  his  pocket  at  this  outburst, 
then  sensitively  he  decided  to  defer  material  approval  of 
such  real  devotion  until  the  hour  of  parting. 

"I  quite  understand  your  regret,"  he  said,  and  asked, 
"What  number  on  the  Rue  de  Lille  is  this  house?" 

Julie  gave  it,  adding,  "Shall  I  not  telephone  to  madame 
there,  to  return  at  once,  and  — ?" 

"On  no  account !" 

The  low-toned  decision  was  that  of  the  master  and  sent 
him  up  in  her  opinion.  This  man  was  not  a  meek  sheep. 
She  saw  that  now.  He  had  fire  in  him,  kept  out  of  sight. 
A  quiet  man  on  the  surface  —  that  was  all.  It  was  then 
very  well  that  the  chere,  petite  madame,  was  leaving  be- 
fore matters  had  gone  any  further  with  that  young 
Spaniard  who  cared  not  who  saw  the  desperate  almost 
angry  love  for  her  in  his  gaze  —  ah,  and  Dieu,  what  an 
adorable  man!  She  could,  herself,  be  quite  insane  about 
him.  But  it  was  best  there  was  to  be  a  sudden  end  of 
him,  for  this  big,  brown  stranger  with  the  fagged  eyes, 
though  he  could  keep  the  world  between  him  and  his  wife 
for  so  long,  was  not  one  to  be  played  for  a  fool.  Oh,  no, 
not  at  all !  And  the  Spaniard,  fashioned  though  he  was 
to  pull  a  woman's  heart  out  of  her,  was  not  to  be  trusted 
to  last  in  the  daily  wear  and  tear  of  life.  That  she  had 
always  felt! 

She  renewed  her  offer  of  tea  to  Robert.  He  refused  it, 
adding : 

"I'll  smoke  here  a  few  moments.  Afterward,  if  you'll 
be  good  enough  to  show  me,  I'll  freshen  up  a  little  from 
the  train,  and  perhaps  look  in  at  the  Rue  de  Lille." 

"Bien,    monsieur!      Just    in    here  —  votta?  —  is    the 


46  The  Next  Corner 

water  and  fresh  towels."  She  hurried  away,  her  look 
secretly  anxious. 

And  as  Robert  smoked  in  the  room  made  cheerless  by 
the  impending  departure,  the  prettiness  of  it  spoiled  by 
trunks,  hat  boxes  and  frippery  rubbish  arranged  in  heaps 
for  discarding,  he  tried  to  see,  side  by  side,  the  three, 
separate  years  as  he  and  Elsie  had  spent  them: 

Himself,  a  machine;  a  fanatical  worker,  living  in  his 
brain  and  for  ambition ;  every  appetite,  every  bodily  need 
made  to  intensify  its  use  toward  success.  With  this  there 
had  come  a  closeness  to  Infinity  that  had  kept  him  from 
callousness,  —  oh,  the  wide  spaces  where  the  cold  fire  of 
stars  had  hung  so  low  they  spoke  to  him  as  voices  from 
those  distant  worlds!  He  had  worked  with  brain  and 
hands  through  days  of  furnace  heat  to  lie  on  his 
bungalow  porch  when  they  were  done,  gazing  with 
wordless  wonder  and  trust  up  at  these  friendly  stars  until, 
with  deep  sleep,  he  would  seem  to  fall  into  kind,  cool, 
black  depths  where  winds  rose  to  gales  and  revived  the 
wasted  body  until  the  dawn  burned  again  and  brought  the 
straining  life.  This  had  lasted  in  a  drugged  sort  of  peace 
until  a  few  months  previous  when  his  return  to  Europe, 
and  after  that  to  America,  had  showed  on  the  horizon. 

"Come,"  home  called;  then  louder  and  louder,  "Come 
back!  Oh,  come,  come!" 

He  had  begun  then  to  wish  for  many  things,  blurred 
before:  For  Elsie  first,  for  the  living  girl  of  the  banded 
hair  and  the  deep-musing  smile,  her  grace  and  girlishness 
and  simpleness  and  truth.  And  with  her  beside  him  for 
a  sight  of  temperate  skies:  the  streams  of  France  under 
slim,  plumed  poplars;  perhaps  the  hedges  of  England 
with  glowworms  lighting  the  long  and  pallid  dusks  while 
the  hawthorn  scent  made  the  heart  ache  from  its  too  much 
sweetness.  And  after  that,  America  —  home  —  the  first 
winter  taste  of  it  —  glacially  splendid,  pure,  sparkling, 
a  tonic  of  whiteness!  All  this  with  Elsie. 

He  looked  into  the  uphill  street  at  the  high,  drab  houses 
whose  windows  were  hung  with  lace  or  silk,  and  at  the 


The  Next  Corner  47 

silver-bright  motors  rushing  past  them.  What  different 
years  she  had  known !  Paris  —  perhaps  of  all  the  civi- 
lized world  the  spot  most  embellished  in  a  multiform  way, 
most  unlike  his  humid,  Burmese  wild  —  her  home ;  and 
vividly  so,  for  this  apartment  was  close  to  the  world- 
known  Champs  Elysees,  that  was  the  artery  through  its 
heart.  These  trunks  held  the  things  most  precious  to 
her.  This  maid  of  hers  was  critical  of  him,  almost  as  if 
he  had  come  an  intruding  spy  within  an  enemy's  lines. 
And  herself?  —  she  was  spending  the  last  moments  of 
this  last  day  with  a  crowd  of  society  people  who  must 
have  come  to  mean  much  more  to  her  than  he  had  guessed. 
He  felt  a  heated  eagerness  either  to  rout  or  ratify  these 
impressions.  He  wanted  to  know  more  of  her  and 
quickly.  He  would  see  who  her  friends  were;  see  her 
among  them. 

Still  with  the  feeling  of  being  out  of  his  element,  he 
made  such  preparations  as  were  possible  for  appearance 
at  a  fashionable  tea.  The  water  dashing  into  the  marble 
basin  upon  his  hands  was  like  a  loosened  cataract  to  his 
sensitive  ears ;  he  found  himself  walking  in  a  hushed  way 
with  small  and  careful  steps  unlike  his  own;  it  seemed  a 
staggering  intrusion  to  enter  his  wife's  bedroom  at  all 
and,  as  he  fastened  his  tie  before  the  mirror  there,  his 
hands  were  unsteady. 

He  was  not  a  fanciful  man  and  even  as  this  mood  per- 
sisted he  resented  it,  was  inclined  to  give  one  of  his  short 
and  vigorous  laughs  at  it.  What  folly  — !  Just  because 
Elsie  was  absent  and  the  many  trunks  and  the  heavy  per- 
fume were  there  instead,  he  was  acting  like  a  nervous 
schoolboy. 

With  this  thought  setting  his  teeth  in  amused  self-im- 
patience, he  found  his  hat  in  the  salon  and  then  came 
back  deliberately  to  the  bedroom  for  no  reason  than  to 
send  a  defiantly  hardy  gaze  about  it.  He  went  to  the 
big  bed  and  looked  down  at  the  pillows,  fancying  Elsie's 
face  there,  a  smile  and  the  mist  of  sleep  in  her  eyes. 
Needle  points  of  tenderness  went  over  him  as  his  darkened 


48  The  Next  Corner 

fingers,  with  traces  of  old  sun  blisters  on  them,  fingered 
the  lace  upon  the  spread.  A  dream  came  into  his  eyes. 
If  he  could  see  her  there!  .  .  . 

Why  —  if  he  could  see  her  at  all !  One  full  look,  and 
he  felt  sure  that  this  depression,  as  of  an  untimely  out- 
sider, would  leave  him.  And  he  could  be  gazing  into  her 
face  in  ten  minutes!  He  roused  himself.  He  would  go 
at  once. 

Julie  answered  his  call  and  found  he  had  opened  the 
door  to  the  outer  passage.  From  there  he  gave  her  a 
short  and  distinct  message:  He  might  miss  his  wife  at 
the  tea ;  she  might  already  be  on  her  way  home.  In  that 
case  Julie  was  to  say  that  she  was  to  wait,  and  he  would 
return  immediately. 

She  peeped  like  a  conspirator  from  the  salon  window 
until  she  saw  him  hail  a  cab,  after  which,  with  her  lips 
pursed  shrewdly,  she  made  a  rush  for  the  telephone.  "A 
husband,"  her  thoughts  ran,  "when  expected,  can  be  a 
pleasant  thing.  Not  expected,  the  devil  himself  might  be 
more  welcome.  I  know  what  I  know!  Madame  must  be 
told  that  he  is  on  hand  and  very  much  to  be  counted  in. 
Why,  he  is  crazy  with  love  for  her,  although  he  has  the 
cold  English  air !  Oh,  yes  !  Now  that  he  is  here  —  well, 
my  faith,  make  no  mistake !  —  he  is  here!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

ONE  of  the  Longueval  footmen  in  buff  and  silver  took 
Julie's  flustered  telephone  message  for  Madame  Maury 
that  her  husband  had  unexpectedly  arrived  and  was  on  his 
way  to  her  at  the  countess's.  He  made  an  attempt  to 
find  her  among  the  crowd  that  strayed  over  gardens  and 
house.  Not  succeeding  and  other  duties  calling,  he  de- 
ferred the  search;  meant  to  continue  it;  forgot  it. 

Elsie  was  in  the  garden  on  a  bench  behind  one  of  the 
forsythia  bushes  from  which  the  yellow  flowers  were  al- 
most gone,  and  Arturo  was  beside  her.  He  had  been  there 
for  ten  minutes,  during  which  he  had  talked  earnestly, 
and  then  had  become  silent  while  smoking  the  cigarettes 
whose  odd  fragrance  she  knew  would  always  be  remem- 
bered with  some  touch  of  the  glamour  that  pained  her 
now.  Within  a  window  close  to  them,  an  English  singer, 
with  a  contralto  of  such  searching  sweetness  it  touched 
the  most  cynical  to  a  passing  reality  of  love's  "old,  old 
pain",  gave  Kipling's  words  to  the  padding,  yearning, 
Eastern  music: 

Alone,  upon  the  housetops  to  the  north, 
I  turn  and  watch  the  lightning  in  the  sky, 
The  glamour  of  thy  footsteps  in  the  north  — 
Come  back  to  me,  beloved,  or  I  die! 

Far,  far  below  the  still  bazaar  is  laid, 
Far,  far  below  the  weary  camels  lie, 
The  camels  and  the  captives  of  thy  raid  — 
Come  back  to  me,  beloved,  or  I  die! 

They  both  sat  listening,  not  looking  at  each  other. 
They  seemed  to  hear  the  jingling  clatter  of  the  camels 
sinking  cumberously  to  rest;  distant  cymbal  clashes  from 
the  captives  who  danced ;  the  sob  of  the  woman  watching 

49 


50  The  Next  Corner 

from  the  housetop.  Arturo  was  very  pale.  Elsie,  who 
had  lighted  one  of  his  cigarettes  for  herself,  let  it  burn 
out  in  her  drooped  hand: 

My  father's  wife  is  old  and  harsh  with  years, 
And  drudge  of  all  my  father's  house  am  I, 
My  bread  is  sorrow  and  my  drink  is  tears  — 
Come  back  to  me,  beloved,  or  I  die! 

"Will  you  come  to  El  Miradero?"  Arturo  asked  and 
so  closely  upon  the  last  cry  of  the  song  the  question 
seemed  its  concluding  despair.  He  did  not  move  to  her, 
seemeVl  to  find  it  hard  even  to  look  at  her.  "Will  I  see 
you  there?" 

"I've  told  you,"  Elsie  said,  and  made  a  regretful,  nega- 
tive sign  with  the  hand  that  held  the  cigarette. 

"Won't  even  try !" 

"Cannot.  I've  told  you  why,  Arturo,"  she  said  in  a 
deeply  sorrowful  way. 

"Then  this  is  the  end  —  now  —  and  here."  His  hand 
stole  across  and  lay  upon  her  shoulder  in  the  lightest  way. 
"It  has  been  my  own  folly  believing  that  you  loved  me," 
and  his  hopeless  voice  had  a  boy's  tears. 

The  tenderness  she  felt  for  him  broke  through  the 
cloud  upon  her  eyes.  "Don't  say  that;  nor  think  it.  I 
care  —  Arturo." 

"Words,  words." 

"Words?  The  thought  of  never  seeing  you  again  is  a 
sort  of  death.  And  yet  there's  another  thing  —  there's 
my  caring  for  Robert,  for  I  do  care  for  him  too,  in  a 
different  way  — " 

A  triangular  frown  shot  up  between  Arturo's  brows. 
"I  know,"  he  broke  in,  the  tone  uninterested.  "You  don't 
hate  him;  you  even  like  him.  He  was  a  habit  with  you 
once,  and  habits  can  be  resumed." 

"No,  I  must  be  honest."  She  faced  him,  a  light  as  from 
a  shrine  within  quivering  through  the  make-up  of  her 
exquisite,  littk  face.  "The  question  I  see  is  this:  If  I 
go  away  where  I  will  never  see  you,  never  hear  any  one 


The  Next  Corner  51 

even  speak  your  name,  won't  I  learn  to  forget  you  and 
be  satisfied  again  in  the  affection  I  had  for  him?  His 
feeling  for  me  is  not  like  yours  —  a  terrifying  sort  of 
happiness  to  me.  Yet  it's  steady;  so  deep!  He'd  die 
for  me." 

He  laughed.  "Without  a  doubt.  And  yet  for  years  he 
has  lived  quite  comfortably  without  you !  However  —  " 
His  bitter  look  was  flung  along  the  silence  that  held  them. 
"I  see  you  are  determined.  Besides,  I  am  a  fatalist.  Some 
ancestor  of  mine  must  have  been  converted  to  Islam's 
belief  in  predestination  when  the  Moors  held  Spain.  Yes, 
it  can  only  be  a  heritage  from  Morocco  that  I  have  the 
most  absolute  faith  in  the  end  being  arranged  for  us, 
waiting  for  us  —  though  hidden  from  us  —  before  we 
take  one  step.  It  seems  now  that  no  matter  what  I  wish 
or  do,  it  is  written  that  I  am  to  lose  you." 

He  gave  a  swift,  wretched  look  around.  No  one  was 
near  them.  Before  Elsie  knew  his  intention,  before  she 
could  have  checked  it  if  she  had  wished,  he  had  bent 
his  dark  and  gleaming  face  to  hers  with  a  sensuously 
yearning  movement  that  was  a  sort  of  agony  to  her,  and 
found  her  mouth.  His  lips  quivered  there  in  a  raging, 
deep-reaching  kiss  under  which  her  will  first  hardened  in 
terror  and  then  dissolved  in  a  despairing  rapture. 

"Darling,  darling,  darling,"  he  whispered,  the  tone 
shaken,  "adios,  ah,  adios  —  if  it  must  be  — !" 

He  was  gone  while  his  breath  lingered  on  her  face. 
Before  she  could  realize  it  he  was  lost  in  the  fringe  of 
people  about  the  windows,  and  she  was  sitting  alone  in 
the  leaf  shadows,  the  most  riotous  sweetness  with  a  bitter 
edge  going  over  her  spirit.  She  remained  so,  with 
strained  eyes  and  breathless. 

As  if  she  peered  through  a  storm  she  was  looking 
into  herself,  trying  to  find  the  deep  under  truths 
that  women  have  a  way  of  edging  from.  Many  centuries 
have  gone  to  the  making  of  concealment  and  pretense  with 
them,  yet  to  all  but  the  generically  celibate  moments  come 
that  bring  the  consciousness  of  not  having  lived  in  any 


52  The  Next  Comer 

real  sense  until,  whether  early  or  late,  there  has  been  sur- 
render to  passionate  obsession.  Elsie  knew  this  now  and 
for  a  moment  felt  rage  at  the  fate  that  robbed  her  of  it 
when  it  was  close  to  her,  inviting  her,  cajoling  her  to  its 
mastering  delight. 

Perverse  it  was,  this  infatuation.  For  when  she  tried  to 
study  it  as  one  would  the  colors  in  a  fabric,  she  saw  that 
the  things  for  which  she  had  come  to  love  Arturo  were 
not  the  things  she  naturally  valued  in  a  man.  She  loved 
his  implanted  pride  of  race  —  no  doubt  narrow,  intol- 
erant —  yet  outwardly  all  allure,  silken  and  soft,  and 
that  created  his  amused  consideration  of  the  restraining 
morality  meant  for  the  small  people.  She  loved  his  smil- 
ing civility  that  could,  when  he  wished,  so  mysteriously 
convey  a  rigid  exclusiveness ;  the  exotic  richness  of  his 
dark  glance  that,  slowly  traveling  over  her,  would  make 
her  flush  with  a  guilty  delight  as  if  he  had  miraculously 
bared  her  body,  looked,  and  found  her  sweet.  She  loved 
his  beauty  —  all  the  blended  charm  of  it  —  his  gaze,  and 
smile,  and  voice,  the  way  he  moved  with  prodigal  freedom, 
warm  grace.  And  perhaps,  most  of  all,  she  loved  all 
these  things  because  they  swept  over  her  with  an  electric 
sense  of  danger,  —  a  fear  of  him  that  could  make  her 
heart  give  jerking  beats  and  seem  to  hold  her,  thrilled 
and  listening,  high  above  the  dull  things  of  every  day. 

And  was  this  all  ?  —  no  gleam  of  reverence,  of  the 
spirit,  in  her  feeling  for  him?  Ah,  there  was.  To-day, 
and  for  the  first  time,  she  saw  it.  She  respected  him  that 
he  could  love  as  he  did  her,  as  simple  and  unashamed  in 
his  reasoning  about  it  as  the  primeval  man  who  tracked 
the  woman  he  wanted  for  mate  patiently,  tirelessly, 
through  the  veiled  turnings  of  the  forests.  For  a  year 
he  had  kept  beside  her,  his  heart  in  his  face.  All  had  read 
it  there.  He  had  given  no  thought  to  them.  She  had 
been  the  sun  in  his  eyes  and  he  had  seen  nothing  else. 
Wayward,  spoiled,  selfish  he  was,  living  indolently,  ac- 
cording to  the  debilitating  law  of  his  class,  upon  what 
money  came  through  the  sacrifices  of  women;  yet  he  had 


The  Next  Corner  53 

made  her  know  what  she  had  never  before  known,  —  the 
sweetness  of  that  absolute  supremacy  over  the  will  and 
heart  of  a  man,  like  no  other  joy  in  the  life  of  a  woman 
that,  while  it  holds,  can  make  up  to  her  for  the  loss  of 
many  things  otherwise  precious. 

Coveting  another  sight  of  Arturo,  wondering  if  he  were 
really  gone,  Elsie,  a  little  later,  strolled  into  a  small  room 
in  one  of  the  wings.  She  knew  that  a  roulette  wheel  had 
been  set  up  there  for  the  countess's  intimates.  The  call 
of  the  man  acting  as  croupier  had  reached  her  on  a  regu- 
lar rhythm  through  the  curtains :  "Fait  vos  jeux!  —  Rien 
va  plus!"  And  so  had  the  clatter  of  the  ivory  counters, 
gaily  disputing  voices,  laughter,  even  screams. 

She  had  always  been  too  poor  to  gamble  with  her  ex- 
travagant or  wealthy  friends ;  to-day  did  not  even 
watch  the  players,  and  with  the  Hindoo  again  beside  her, 
sat  at  one  side,  apart  from  the  crowd.  She  was  silent, 
and  a  tiredness  to  the  core  made  her  whitened  face,  with 
the  shadowed  lids  half-veiled,  an  absolute  mask. 

Through  a  confused  moment  where  only  her  own 
thoughts  were  plain  she  seemed  to  look  straight  at  a  man 
who  entered,  although  in  reality  she  saw  him  but  vaguely. 
He  gave  her  a  brief  glance,  looked  away;  then,  startled, 
he  turned  sharply,  came  a  step  nearer  and  stopped  again, 
recognition  and  dismay  in  his  gaze.  The  look  plunged 
through  the  cloud  on  Elsie's  mind,  and  it  rallied  to  at- 
tention. At  this  the  actual  earth  seemed  to  drop  from 
under  her  chair. 

She  was  looking  at  Robert.  He  it  was  who  stood  there, 
motionless,  whose  eyes  with  their  studying  look  had  the 
effect  of  a  hand  pressing  her  back,  barring  her  approach 
to  him.  "Stay  where  you  are,"  they  seemed  to  say, 
"while  I  get  used  to  believing  that  this  can  be  you." 

She  rose  in  a  nervously  listless  way,  a  cigarette  burn- 
ing between  her  fingers,  and  swept  to  him. 

"Robert !  I  thought  I  must  be  seeing  things !"  This 
came  in  a  shrill  tone,  her  vampirish  mouth  jerking  side- 
ways. 


54  The  Next  Corner 

Quite  suddenly  she  knew  that  communion  between  them 
could  be  bearable  to  her  only  if  kept  to  a  surface  light- 
ness. And  as  a  help  she  deliberately  continued  a  freakish 
gaiety  that  seemed  to  reach  Robert  across  a  distance  and 
hold  him  there.  It  was  not  her  usual  manner,  for  in 
spite  of  the  froth  and  caprice  of  her  life  she  had  retained 
a  sincerity  of  bearing  and  utterance  unlike  most  of  the 
women  who  were  her  intimates. 

The  effect  she  produced  on  him,  in  her  yellow  gauze, 
that  though  fashioned  for  afternoon  wear  was  so  trans- 
parent it  left  a  good  deal  of  her  body  visible,  with  her 
face  undisguisedly  tricked  out  and  her  gleaming  cigarette 
poised,  was  a  harsh  one,  —  a  marionette  with  whom 
fashion  was  idolatry;  an  over-decorated,  empty  eggshell. 
She  could  feel  this  and  in  a  desperate  way  persisted  in 
the  affectation  that  sustained  her,  the  more  so  that  under 
Robert's  earnest  gaze  a  feeling  of  guilt  made  her  hide- 
ously uncomfortable. 

"Throw  that  away,"  Robert  said  quietly  with  a  scant 
look  at  the  cigarette. 

She  gave  an  empty  laugh,  —  a  new  laugh  to  him,  of  a 
part  with  her  fluttering,  disdainful  carriage.  "Your  first 
words  a  command !  I'd  forgotten  the  thing !"  She  turned 
to  flick  it  from  her  fingers  to  a  table  that  held  the 
smokers'  service.  "How  on  earth  did  you  get  here?"  she 
ran  on,  and  without  waiting  for  his  reply,  continued, 
"Julie  sent  you,  of  course.  Let's  get  out  of  this,"  and  as 
he  mutely  followed:  "What  a  banal  ending  to  our  third 
act,  Robert !  Husband  and  wife  meet  after  long  years,  — 
why,  sacred  from  all  eyes,  that  should  have  occurred  at 
home.  You  know,"  and  in  the  gayest  way  she  thrust  a 
hand  through  his  arm,  "it's  impossible  to  be  emotional 
in  a  crowd.  Among  a  crowd  of  your  Burmese  or  Hindoos, 
perhaps  yes  —  not  one  like  this.  So  you've  queered  the 
drama,  my  dear." 

"It  seems  so,"  Robert  admitted,  and  then  vigorously, 
"How  soon  can  you  get  away?" 

"Now,"  she  said  casually;  "we'll  go  now." 


The  Next  Corner  55 

"You'll  have  to  say  good-by  to  your  hostess  first  — " 

"Heavens,  no!"  she  laughed.  "Haven't  an  idea  where 
she  is  —  and  she  wouldn't  thank  me.  Come  along.  There 
are  millions  of  taxicabs  hanging  about." 

She  went  with  birdlike  grace  through  the  garden  ahead 
of  him.  He  could  not  see  that  her  eyes  were  searching 
for  Arturo,  for  a  last  sight  of  him,  though  only  at  a  dis- 
tance and  among  a  crowd.  They  could  not  find  him.  He 
must  have  gone  away  in  his  despair,  and  frankly;  as  she 
was  going  in  hers,  but  masking  it  under  laughter. 

"You  hadn't  any  tea,"  Elsie  exclaimed  as  they  waited 
for  a  cab  to  come  to  them.  "You  were  used  to  your  tea 
in  Burmah  with  all  those  English  —  of  course !  You  must 
have  some.  Julie  can  manage  it,  I  dare  say." 

He  saw  the  disordered  apartment,  the  trunks,  and  the 
woman's  too  intelligent  eyes,  and  felt  the  same  scent  that 
floated  to  him  from  his  wife's  golden  draperies  intensified 
there  to  an  informing  reminder.  "We've  plenty  of  time. 
Can't  we  go  somewhere  for  tea?" 

"Oh,  would  you  like  to?"  she  drawled  gladly.  "That 
would  be  quite  too  chic.  I'll  take  you  to  a  place  that  is 
the  last  word  in  novelties.  Tout-a-fait  Parisian!"  She 
gave  an  address  as  they  entered  a  cab. 

The  outline  of  the  situation  between  them,  the  details 
of  her  part  —  that  of  the  wife  meeting  her  husband  after 
long  absence  —  were  clear  to  her.  She  drew  off  her  glove 
submissively  and  laid  her  hand  on  one  of  Robert's  with  a 
faintly  urgent  pressure. 

"I  can't  believe  it  yet,  Robert.  I  simply  can't  believe 
it,"  she  said  helplessly,  and  smiled. 

He  smiled  back,  not  his  own  smile ;  his1  lips  were  pushed 
to  it.  "I  had  not  meant  to  be  so  startling,  my  dear." 

They  were  whizzing  along  a  stretch  of  empty,  pale 
gray  street  that  gave  him  perfect  opportunity  to  kiss  her. 
He  knew  this,  knew  that  she  expected  it.  There  was 
something  appalling  in  feeling  that  he  had  no  desire  to 
kiss  that  foolish  mouth,  hard  with  a  metallic  red  dye.  He 
drew  her  to  him,  and  their  lips  met  briefly. 


56  The  Next  Corner 

> 

"You're  different,  Robert,"  she  said  as  she  sank  back, 
studying  him  dreamily,  and  felt  a  great  satisfaction  in 
being  able  to  say  this  truthfully.  The  subversion  in  her- 
self could  be  better  defended  since  he,  too,  was  changed. 

"I'm  burnt  almost  black  and  I've  lost  twenty  pounds, 
if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"I  don't  mean  that.  And  I  don't  mean  those  tiny  lines 
that  have  come  about  your  eyes  — " 

"Sun  squint  —  focussing  through  a  blinding  glare. 
They  won't  last,  so  don't  let  them  trouble  you." 

"There's  something  else,"  she  murmured,  and  the 
smeared  lids  fluttered  over  her  steadily  placed  gaze. 
"Either  you're  very  tired  —  or  you've  grown  old  —  or 
you're  bored.  You  used  to  be  so  impulsive,  with  a  happy 
look  —  and  I  liked  that." 

Never  given  to  evasions,  he  had  been  swept  absolutely 
clean  of  pretense  in  the  simplicity  in  which  he  had  lived. 
The  impulse  to  speak  out  had  to  be  obeyed.  And  through 
it  he  might  get  a  little  nearer  to  her. 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you  something,  Elsie.  You  don't 
seem  yourself.  Not  the  same  at  all !" 

She  laughed  out;  a  dismayed  trill  born  back  of  the 
lips.  "Really?  Ah,  my  dear,  you  must  remember  I'm 
three  years  older;  and  that  I  was  a  girl  literally  from 
the  backwoods  when  you  saw  me  last.  I'm  not  that  now 
—  Dieu  merci!  —  so  I  dare  say  I  seem  astoundingly  dif- 
ferent to  you."  The  crayoned  eyebrows,  that  vanished 
into  hair  strokes  like  the  tilted-up  ends  of  a  lash,  flick- 
ered demurringly.  "You  liked  the  old  me  better  than  this 
me  —  now,  didn't  you?" 

"I  did."  He  pressed  her  hand  gently  while  deliberately 
studying  her.  "Why  do  you  do  all  that?" 

"All  what?" 

"Put  all  that  stuff  on  your  face?" 

"How  crude  you  are!"  she  frowned,  and  continued  on 
a  drawl.  "Embellissement,  mon  cher.  Pour  la  beaute, 
pour  le  charme!" 

"Do  speak  English!" 


The  Next  Corner  57 

"Very  well.     Any  other  questions?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  brusquely.  "Do  you  suppose  that  you 
fool  anybody?" 

"Oh,  you  dear,  big,  simple  thing!"  Elsie  retorted  and 
sank  away  from  him  in  a  flurry  of  gayety.  "Why,  all  the 
women  here  touch  up !  We  don't  try  to  fool  any  one.  We 
do  it  before  every  one,  and  it  is  chic  to  like  to  do  it. 
Voila!"  She  whisked  her  hand  from  his  hold  and  pulled 
a  silver  vanity  case  from  her  bag.  "Now  that  you're  rich 
you'll  give  me  a  gold  one  —  won't  you?"  she  murmured 
as  she  opened  it. 

A  mirror  that  lined  the  inner  part  of  the  top  flashed 
out,  and  beneath  it  Robert  saw  a  half  dozen,  tiny,  silver 
lids  that  covered  what  were  mysteries  to  him.  He  did, 
however  understand  the  use  of  the  lip  stick  that  she 
daintily  poised  and  whose  tip  was  a  venomously  red 
bullet/ 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  came  from  him  in  ex- 
asperated surprise. 

"Show  you,  my  dear,  how  we  Parlsiennes  dot  the  'i'  of 
whatever  stock  of  good  looks  we  have — " 

"It  doesn't  help  your  stock  with  me,"  he  said  and  drew 
down  her  hand  with  force.  "Please  put  that  away  or  — 
better  still  —  chuck  it  out  of  the  window !" 

"Oh,  really?  —  Well,  I'll  put  it  away,"  she  said  with 
the  meekness  of  fatigue.  "You  great  simple-minded  bar- 
barian, you'll  have  to  get  used  to  things  that  are  not 
qUJte  —  raw.  We  can't  all  be  rough  diamonds  and 
virgin  gold.  That's  all  you've  seen  for  so  long  —  and 
that's  what  you  are.  Virgin  gold?"  she  mused.  "Not  in 
demand  in  big  cities.  A  little  alloy  —  not  quite  perfec- 
tion —  is  much  preferred.  And  it  really  wears  better, 
my  dear." 

"You  are  mistaken,  and  you  are  misjudging  me,"  he 
said  very  clearly,  jarred  by  the  gay  patronage  of  the 
tone.  "I'm  quite  of  the  world  in  my  tolerance.  If  you 
needed  help  of  this  sort  and  applied  it  delicately  to  your 
face,  I'd  not  mind  In  fact,  if  delicately  done,  probably 


58  The  Next  Corner 

I'd  not  know  of  it.  Civilization  of  this  sort  doesn't  exist 
only  in  cities  like  Paris."  His  voice  grew  kinder,  al- 
though his  eyes  remained  sternly  grave.  "It's  been  from 
the  beginning  of  the  world,  and  it  is  in  the  East,  wherever 
there  are  women.  But  —  and  make  a  note  of  it  —  they 
are  always  women  of  a  certain  sort.  For  instance,  when 
I  was  in  Canton  I  saw  Chinese  women  who  went  this  Paris 
face-painting  a  good  many  points  better  —  even  made 
their  lips  seem  of  solid  gold.  But  they  were  the  women 
of  the  flower  boats.  You  know  what  that  means?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  remember  you  wrote  me  all  about  those 
curious,  little  creatures.  Well,  I'm  glad  you  weren't  such 
a  pillar  of  propriety  that  you  wouldn't  have  a  look  at 
them  in  their  pretty  flower  boats."  Her  tone  became  open 
ennui.  "I  tell  you,  Robert,  frankly,  it  does  seem  an 
awful  waste  of  time  objecting  to  a  lot  of  unimportant, 
surface  things.  Let  people  do  what  they  like,  I  say  — 
of  course,  nothing  that  would  send  them  to  jail!  That's 
what  we  feel  here,  at  any  rate.  Why  bother?  It's  all 
the  same  in  a  hundred  years !" 

"I  don't  like  your  philosophy."  He  said  this  in  a  tone 
she  remembered  from  the  past.  It  had  never  been  used 
to  her  then,  and  only  in  directions  to  those  under  him 
when  he  outlined  something  conclusively,  a  silencing  of 
argument  in  the  economy  of  words,  every  one  of  which 
was  bitten  off  clean. 

She  laughed  —  the  same  trill  from  the  lips.  "Sorry," 
she  said  briefly. 

"And  though  this  may  seem  to  you  the  opinion  of  one 
akin  to  a  lout  or  a  clodhopper  —  lacking  your  oppor- 
tunity for  polish,  you  know  —  I'll  be  glad  when  you  can 
come  to  see  that  your  face  is  prettier,  better  in  every 
way,  without  whitewash  and  red  ink  —  for  that's  the  im- 
pression I  get  from  it." 

"And  when  will  that  time  be,  I  wonder?"  She  mur- 
mured this,  giving  a  brief  shrug,  yet  with  anger  in  the 
tone. 

"No  need  to  wonder.     I'm  sure  it  will  be  when  you 


The  Next  Corner  59 

have  left  Paris  behind  you  —  perhaps  not  until  it  has 
been  left  behind  a  long  time.  Yet,  I  am  hopeful." 

At  his  words  her  hidden  grief  took  on  active  life,  put 
fangs  into  her.  As  she  remained  serious,  he  quickly  grew 
tender. 

"Elsie,"  he  said,  closed  his  hand  on  hers  and  gave  it 
a  steady  pressure,  "fancy  us  getting  into  this  dispute 
when  we've  just  found  each  other  again !  You'll  bear  with 
me  a  little.  If  you  seem  to  me  foolishly  to  damage  your 
real  and  bewitching  self,  I  dare  say  I  do  seem  a  rough 
fellow  to  you.  We'll  help  each  other.  Shall  we?" 

"We've  got  to,"  Elsie  said,  and  the  words  had  some- 
thing of  a  comrade's  earnestness,  though  her  spirit  was 
now  weeping  for  its  secret  bread. 

Soon  they  were  seated  in  the  tea  shop. 


CHAPTER   VH 

THE  place  came  at  Robert  like  a  knock  on  a  fresh 
sore.  There  are  in  Paris  —  or  were  before  the  war  had 
made  it  augustly  grave  —  small  tea  rooms  in  several  and 
queer  places.  Some  opened  frankly  off  a  boulevard  or 
residence  street.  Some,  catering  to  a  selected  clientele, 
were  found  in  a  back  courtyard  reached  through  an  im- 
passe; or  in  the  rear  of  modiste  and  manicure  shops ;  or 
up  a  flight  of  stairs  in  a  studio  building;  or  across  the 
Seine  in  some  cul-de-sac  of  the  Quartier.  However  diversi- 
fied their  placing,  and  whether  luxurious  or  plain  in  fur- 
nishing, their  significant  qualities  were  alike.  All  were 
oriental,  therefore  fittingly  kept  in  heavy  shadow,  per- 
fumed, secretive.  Quite  respectable  as  far  as  conduct, 
they  yet  were  safe  places  for  those  who  wished  to  meet  to 
talk  and  not  be  seen. 

This  one  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Rond  Point, 
the  street  thick  with  trees.  Elsie  led  Robert  up  a  green 
alley  to  a  small  house  at  the  back  of  a  garden.  The  lower 
floor  had  a  show  window  crowded  with  various  lengths  of 
ancient  lace,  with  antique  jewelry  and  silver.  There  was 
only  an  old  Frenchman  in  the  shop,  polishing  a  bit  of 
metal.  Elsie  nodded  to  him  and  went  up  a  stairway  that 
would  have  seemed  to  lead  to  the  merchant's  home.  In- 
stead, at  a  turning,  the  light  changed  to  a  violet  dusk, 
the  scent  of  rose  potpourri  stole  out,  and  a  Hindoo  was 
seen  at  the  top,  sitting  on  the  floor,  his  knees  hunched.  He 
rose,  bowed  deeply  to  the  visitors,  and  on  linen-sandalled 
feet  went  soundlessly  ahead  of  them  to  one  of  the  screened 
tables.  Before  this  was  reached  other  screens  were 
passed,  subdued  voices  and  laughter  coming  from  behind 

60 


The  Next  Corner  61 

them.  No  one  looked  out.  Visitors  here  had  no  curiosity 
about  their  neighbors. 

"This  feverish  effect  seems  rather  overdone  if  its  raison 
d'etre  is  really  —  tea."  Robert  said  this  coldly.  "Do 
you  come  here  often?" 

"Tea  is  merely  a  trimming.  This  sort  of  thing  is  a 
fad.  Its  queerness  helps  Parisians  to  escape  for  an  hour 
from  themselves  and  the  actual,"  Elsie  said,  her  elbows  on 
the  table,  chin  on  her  laced  fingers. 

She  felt  a  drowsy  indifference  to  whatever  Robert 
might  think  of  these  caprices.  No  doubt  they  were 
foolish.  Very  well  —  what  of  it? 

"I  was  here  only  once  before,  and  that's  three  months 
ago.  As  a  guide  takes  a  tourist  about,  I  thought  it  might 
amuse  you  to  see  the  odd  little  place.  You're  not  amused. 
Too  bad!" 

During  a  few  moments  they  became  silent.  They  faced 
each  other,  while  in  the  mysteriously  sacred  province  of 
each  brain  thoughts  rose  and  throbbed  that  in  effect 
separated  them  as  if  the  world  had  suddenly  parted  their 
bodies  again.  Elsie  was  remembering  her  only  other  visit 
to  this  place. 

On  a  March  day  of  raw,  high  winds  she  had  gone  there 
to  meet  Arturo.  Unable  to  come,  he  had  sent  Serafin 
with  his  apology  and  with  instructions  to  talk  to  Elsie 
and  detain  her  there  for  a  half  hour,  when  he  hoped  to 
appear. 

She  had  been  content  to  watch  the  man's  long,  shorn 
face  and  slanted,  unsmiling  eyes  while  he  told  her  of  in- 
teresting things ;  of  Spain ;  but  mostly  of  his  master,  his 
beloved  foster  brother.  He  had  dwelt  with  unction  on 
Arturo's  rank: 

The  title  had  been  created  in  1470.  He  was  the  eigh- 
teenth Marques  de  Burgos  and  twice  a  grandee  of  the 
first  class.  "Gravedad,  lealdad  y  amor  de  Dios"  was 
the  motto  of  his  family. 

"Perhaps  my  master  has  lost  sight  of  the  last  —  the 
love  of  God  —  in  the  life  of  cities  as  young  men  live  it 


62  The  Next  Corner 

to-day ;  but  the  other  things  are  his  —  dignity  and  loy- 
alty —  these,  through  everything.  Ah,  senora,  I  wish 
you  could  know  Spain  and  behold  my  master  there  in  his 
rightful  place!  It  is  beautiful  to  see.  Yes,  the  honor 
done  his  family  is  very  beautiful  —  for  it  is  now  so  poor 
that  the  old  palace  in  Burgos  with  its  quarterings  en- 
graved over  the  great,  arched  doors  is  crumbling  in  many 
places.  Out  in  the  world,  particularly  in  America, 
nothing  seems  to  matter  but  money.  It  is  not  so  in 
Spain.  The  uncontaminated  sangre  azul  is  worshipped 
there  just  for  itself,"  he  had  said,  a  shining  awe  in  his 
sunken  eyes.  "When  the  Senor  Marques  goes  to  court, 
he  enters  the  greatest  of  the  three  halls,  the  antecdmera. 
There  is  no  honor  that  he  does  not  have.  When  he  goes 
to  an  audience  with  royalty  the  guards  strike  the  marble 
floor  with  their  swords  for  him,  and  the  sound  is  like  a 
thousand  fencers  in  combat.  Ah,  it  is  glorious  to  be  of 
this  blue  blood  of  Spain,  descended  from  the  hidalgos 
of  Castile,  one  of  the  ancient  ones  in  the  Grandeza!" 

All  this  had  made  a  mind  picture  that  had  captivated 
Elsie.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  in  mixed  unbelief  and  rage, 
she  had  seen  the  man  change ;  he  had  trembled  hideously, 
one  dark  hand  with  nails  that  were  polished  fangs  had 
closed  on  hers,  and  while  his  teeth  were  set  against  the 
words  they  yet  had  broken  from  him  in  spurts: 

"I  love  you,  too.  —  Men  must  love  you  easily.  —  You 
are  the  kind  of  woman  that  men  of  my  race  cannot  see 
without  emotion  —  you  are  so  white  —  a  golden  fairness 
—  saint  —  angel!  Ah,"  as,  her  eyes  blazing,  she  man- 
aged at  last  to  get  her  hand  from  him,  "I  am  without 
hope,  senora.  Never  had  I  meant  to  speak.  —  This  place 
has  witchery  —  silent,  and  dark  and  sweet,  and  you  there 
before  me  listening  so  sweetly  —  ah,  give  me  of  your 
pity!  Forgive  me!" 

"You  need  forgiveness,"  she  had  replied,  rising  in  cold 
rage.  "If  I  tell  the  Marques  de  Burgos  that  his 
servant  — " 


The  Next  Corner  63 

She  had  paused,  terrified  by  the  fire  that  had  leaped 
to  the  sunken  eyes  with  the  look  of  a  goaded  animal  as  it 
turns  to  attack. 

"Never  that!  You  do  not  understand.  You  are  ig- 
norant of  anything  that  is  not  American  —  like  all  your 
shop-keeping  race.  I  am  a  Basque!  You  don't  know 
what  that  means.  You  don't  know  that  I  belong  not  to 
Spain  really,  but  to  a  free  people.  I  am  entitled  to  bear 
arms ;  all  Basques  are.  But  because  we  have  through 
centuries  become  a  poor  and  plain  people  of  the  moun- 
tains, we  have  laid  aside  our  noble  rights,  and  we  serve  — 
but  only  where  we  wish!  Only  where  our  hearts  call! 
We  serve  willingly  then,  but  proudly.  So  tell  the  Senor 
Marques  what  I  have  said  to  you.  For  a  moment  as  the 
Marques  de  Burgos,  although  my  foster  brother,  he  will 
be  enraged  —  that  is  true.  As  a  man,  he  will  quickly 
understand  my  temptation  and  overlook  it.  Spaniards 
are  different  from  your  fish-cold  Americans !  They  find 
toleration  for  any  mistake  born  of  what  is  called  here  le 
crime  passionel" 

"Let  me  pass,"  Elsie  had  said,  and  had  gone,  her  crepe 
tunic,  that  fluttered  backward  with  the  free  turbulence 
of  the  Winged  Victory's  draperies,  giving  the  effect  of  a 
queen's  withdrawal. 

Yet  with  malice  born  of  her  insulted  pride,  she  had 
paused  at  the  counter  so  that  Serafin  could  see  her  pay 
and  hear  her  distinct  words  to  the  Hindoo :  "This  is  for 
my  tea  —  and  this  is  for  tea  for  the  valet  of  the  Marques 
de  Burgos,  should  he  wish  any,  while  he  waits  here  for 
his  employer." 

She  had  felt  too  humiliated  to  tell  Arturo,  and  the 
incident  had  seemed  forgotten.  Its  resurrection  in  her 
thoughts  was  like  a  repulsive  roughness  brushing  her 
flesh. 

Robert's  mind  had  been  quickening  during  the  few  mo- 
ments' silence;  at  first  not  with  past  events.  His  eyes, 
while  resting  on  Elsie,  often  did  not  see  her  at  all,  or  but 
vaguely,  while  he  stared  inward,  analyzing  his  disappoint- 
ment in  its  relation  to  himself. 


64  The  Next  Corner 

He  had  expected  rapture  from  his  home-coming.  And 
the  first  flavor  had  been  delicious.  Nothing  short  of  per- 
fection could  have  continued  at  this  height.  And  instead 
of  perfection  there  was  only  the  blurred,  the  damaged,  the 
unfamiliar,  the  unexpected.  His  most  important  pos- 
session, from  promise  of  sweetness,  had  taken  on  the 
sterility  of  stone.  This  strange  Elsie  eluded  him,  irri- 
tated him.  She  seemed  branded  by  a  life  lived  foolishly 
in  Paris.  The  city  loomed  up  between  them,  dividing 
them.  A  hundred  years  seemed  to  have  passed  since  he 
had  joyously  looked  up  at  the  rose-pink  shades  of  the 
apartment  on  the  Rue  de  Chaillot.  He  felt  dejected, 
baffled. 

And  through  this  bewilderment  he  sought  for  the  basic 
truth  in  himself.  After  all,  how  much  had  he  missed 
Elsie  during  his  absence  from  her? 

Two  beings,  closely  bound,  are  separated  for  years  and 
live  diversely.  Change  does  not  come  to  one  alone.  Ab- 
sence must  act  alike  on  the  chemistry  of  both,  —  trans- 
mute the  old,  assimilate  the  new,  mellow  and  shape 
and  crystallize.  Outwardly  Elsie  was  so  unlike  his 
memory  of  her  he  was  revolted,  saddened.  He  saw  that 
inwardly  he  was,  in  his  way,  as  altered.  He  had  grown 
nearer  to  the  essential  and  natural  things ;  used  to  spell- 
bound self-communing ;  had  come  nearer  to  his  spirit ; 
impatient  of  intrusions  that  were  unsought. 

Loneliness  can  be  a  thing  that  finds  food  in  itself. 
Bitter  at  first,  it  can  stealthily  change  to  an  addiction  to 
isolation  and  solitude.  And  isolation  like  his  with  only 
men,  they  fiercely  alive  in  a  struggle  with  the  earth, 
might  so  emphasize  sheer  manful  virility  that  the  revival 
of  life  with  a  woman  might  be  found  full  of  irritating  dis- 
locations that  only  perfect  sympathy  could  disregard. 

A  feeling  of  inertia  without  the  liveliness  of  pain  be- 
came a  weight  upon  him.  There  had  been  much  of  the 
boy  in  him  at  his  work  always.  It  seemed  to  have  left 
him  forever.  He  felt  old,  and  with  this  intolerant  in  the 
doggedly  acrid  way  that  the  old  can  so  easily  become. 


The  Next  Corner  65 

Almost  at  once  he  knew  that  these  reflections  led  to  one 
desire  —  to  get  away  by  himself  for  an  interlude  of  lib- 
erty before  taking  up  the  problem  of  Elsie  —  her  casual- 
ness,  flippancy,  insincerity,  her  veneer  and  her  many 
trunks. 

In  contrast  to  companionship  with  her,  he  saw  the 
journey  home  as  it  might  be  without  her.  England  first 
—  this  a  wise  business  move  of  which  he  had  not  yet 
spoken  to  her  —  and  then  the  voyage  to  New  York  with 
four  men  with  whom  he  felt  that  satisfying  intimacy  that 
makes  no  slightest  effort  to  express  itself;  irresponsible 
drifting  while  —  as  on  his  journey  across  the  Indian 
Ocean  and  the  Mediterranean  —  drinking  in  the  heaving 
reaches  of  water  with  his  land-burnt  eyes,  tasting  the  salt 
winds  as  reviving  food ;  pipes ;  poker ;  and  desultory  talks 
on  deck  as  late  as  he  pleased. 

This  picture  began  to  have  the  appeal  that  thought  of 
a  stolen  holiday  has  to  a  fagged  schoolboy,  demanding 
that  he  creep  from  the  classroom  and  make  a  plunge  for 
a  day  of  delights  where  birds'  nests  were  to  be  had  for  the 
climbing  and  racing  brooks  would  send  ripples  over  bare 
feet. 

A  dislike  of  himself  began  mixing  with  the  longing  even 
while  it  was  sharp  enough  to  hurt.  To  want  to  escape 
the  revived  responsibility  had  almost  the  yellow  of 
treachery.  He  fought  the  temptation,  thrust  it  away. 
It  would  only  go  around  a  turning  in  his  mind.  He  was 
aware  that  it  was  there,  its  eye  peeping,  ear  listening. 

When  the  tea  came  Elsie  poured  it  silently.  She  had 
gleaned  something  of  Robert's  thoughts  and  they  rankled. 
She  had  the  feeling  of  being  one  of  two  people  on  opposite 
sides  of  a  gulf  whose  hands  strive  to  reach  across  it  while 
only  their  fingers  touch ;  a  clasp  impossible. 

How  little  letters  could  count  during  a  long  separation, 
letters  like  theirs.  She  had  put  only  the  surface  of  her 
life  into  hers.  His  had  been  mere  bulletins ;  mostly  he 
had  relied  on  telegrams.  "He  is  made  of  bits  of  paper," 
Arturo  had  said.  It  almost  seemed  that  he  had  been 


66  The  Next  Corner 

right.  She  knew  how  reticent  Robert  was  naturally  in 
expression  of  affection.  So  he  had  believed  his  telegrams 
sufficient,  had  thought  it  unnecessary  to  keep  dwelling  on 
the  love  between  them,  not  realizing  —  as  she  knew  now 
with  the  guilty  sureness  of  her  needs  —  that  love  like  any 
other  thing  must,  to  endure,  be  fed  in  some  way ;  by  con- 
stant assurance  when  nothing  closer  is  possible. 

"He  is  disappointed  in  me,"  was  her  thought.  "He 
feels  miles  away  from  me.  He  isn't  going  to  try  to  make 
love  to  me.  Oh,  I'm  glad  of  that !" 

"There's  one  thing  I  haven't  told  you  about,  Elsie," 
Robert  said,  after  a  cup  of  the  excellent  tea  had  bright- 
ened him.  He  had  not  known  how  parched  and  travel- 
tired  he  was. 

She  shrugged  in  mild  inquiry.     "That  — ?" 

"We  are  going  to  England  to-night,  and  home  that 
way." 

This  roused  her  violently.  A  dark  flush  lurched  over 
her  face.  She  pushed  her  head  forward.  "To  England, 
you  say?  Why,  England?" 

"Some  of  the  directors  met  us  at  the  ship,  and  we  had 
a  meeting,  but  several  weren't  able  to  get  away  from  Lon- 
don. As  there's  a  bit  of  a  row  on  —  something  you 
wouldn't  understand  —  we  decided  it  would  be  best  for 
us  all  to  get  together  once  in  London  and  have  the  thing 
settled.  I  changed  the  tickets  —  yours  and  mine  —  at 
the  office  of  the  French  Line  on  my  way  to  your  place 
from  the  train.  I  want  to  get  to  Dieppe  to-night,  reach 
London  in  good  time  to-morrow,  and  after  a  week  or  ten 
days  in  England,  we'll  sail  from  Liverpool." 

Her  discontent  showed  frankly.  For  three  years  she 
had  been  her  own  law,  directed  her  life  according  to  her 
mood,  —  the  most  whimsical.  Now  she  was  moved  as  a 
pawn  by  a  master  player,  and  it  was  not  pleasant. 

"You  don't  seem  to  realize  that  all  my  trunks  are 
tagged  for  Havre." 

"I'll  change  them  in  a  few  moments,  my  dear,"  he  said 
with  an  easy  touch  of  authority.  "Don't  let  that  annoy 
you." 


The  Next  Corner  67 

A  blaze  flashed  through  her.  "But  I  don't  like  that 
long  train  journey  to  Dieppe  and  then  having  to  cross 
the  Channel  by  the  longest  way  —  an  all-night  journey. 
I  did  it  once  for  economy,  and  I  said  I  never  would 
again." 

"It  can't  be  helped  now,"  he  remarked  peacefully  and 
ate  the  last  slice  of  toast  and  marmalade  with  enjoyment. 

She  looked  at  her  wrist  watch.  "We'll  have  to  rush 
through  dinner,  then  rush  for  a  train,  then  rush  for  the 
boat.  That  horrid  boat!  That  beastly,  hateful,  cheap 
tourist,  all-night  journey!"  Her  eyes  had  a  jet-black 
anger  he  had  not  seen  in  them  before.  And  in  truth  she 
had  never  felt  before  as  she  did  at  this  moment,  —  a  ner- 
vous desperation;  a  longing  to  let  herself  go  and  weep 
wildly  without  check. 

"Does  it  really  matter  so  much?"  he  asked,  his  brows 
lifted  and  held  so  as  he  sharpened  into  new  attention. 

"I  kept  to  your  arrangements,  Robert,"  Elsie  went  on 
unevenly,  "and  got  ready  as  you  wished,  although  even 
then  I  had  precious  little  notice.  Must  you  constantly 
change  your  plans?" 

"Not  I  —  business  changes  them." 

"Well,  it's  hard  enough  without  an  entire  upheaval 
like  this.  I'm  completely  boideverse.  Why,  I  loathe  the 
Channel  even  in  the  short  crossing  from  Calais !" 

"Is  there  something  you'd  rather  do?"  he  asked  and 
tried  to  shut  out  the  voice  now  whispering  with  enticement 
of  the  truant's  delights.  "Would  you  rather  go  on  from 
France  as  arranged  and  meet  me  in  New  York?" 

Several  seconds  passed  before  Elsie  could  speak.  A 
hush  tightened  upon  her,  seemed  to  hold  back  her  breath. 
"Go  back,  on  this  boat,  alone?  But  you've  changed  the 
tickets !" 

"Well,  not  necessarily  on  this  boat.  Arranged  this 
way,  you  need  not  hurry.  Send  your  trunks  along  as 
arranged  now  to  Havre,  to  await  your  orders  there,  and 
leave  Paris  for  home  about  the  time  that  I  leave  Eng- 
land—  that  is,  if  you  want  to." 


68  The  Next  Corner 

She  began  crumbling  the  bread  to  mask  the  quivering 
of  her  fingers.  Before  her  mind  the  picture  of  a  mountain 
swept  up  mistily,  an  odd-looking  little  house,  with  pale 
walls  splashed  with  roses,  on  its  crest.  And  then  the 
things  of  which  Paula  had  spoken:  the  hooded  serenos 
with  lanterns ;  carnations  everywhere ;  and  the  one  mule 
cart  going  down  through  the  high  solitude  at  a  waddling 
pace.  She  heard  the  gay  voices  of  a  mixed  number  in  the 
small  house,  —  Arturo's  guests ;  guitar  music  on  the  thin, 
chill,  mountain  air;  the  tinkling  of  glasses.  She  did  not 
see  Arturo  nor  hear  his  voice.  He  was  there  too  per- 
vadingly  to  appear  as  one  of  the  details ;  back  of  every 
sound  he  was  whispering  to  her;  his  warm  and  quivering 
lips  were  seeking  hers. 

She  continued  silent.  She  saw  that  it  would  not  only 
be  possible  for  her  to  manage  the  visit  to  El  Miradero; 
she  could  easily  go ;  if  she  spoke  the  words,  Robert  would 
in  all  likelihood  urge  her  to  go.  And  yet  with  this  sure 
knowledge  came  a  distinct  recoil  from  the  thought,  a 
terror  of  it,  so  deep  in  her  it  seemed  a  little,  far-off  ghost, 
watching. 

"Don't  go,  don't  go,  don't  go,"  she  felt  rather  than 
heard  it  say.  "Why  delay  the  break  a  few  weeks?  It 
will  be  even  harder  then,  with  just  so  many  more  memories 
to  torment  you.  Go  home  now.  Be  brave.  Go  home 
now,  or  something  may  happen  to  keep  you  from  ever 
going  home!  You're  not  happy  with  Robert  in  this 
meeting,  but  you  will  be  later  on.  He  is  strong,  he  is 
kind,  he  is  steadfast." 

On  the  wake  of  this  appeal  from  her  underlying  fear 
she  recalled  Arturo's  words  about  fate.  If  it  were  to  be, 
it  would  be.  And  he  was  right.  She  had  not  made  the 
slightest  effort  to  remain  in  Paris ;  such  a  thing  had 
seemed  impossible.  And  here  the  power  to  do  so  was  in 
her  hands,  thrust  into  them  by  her  husband.  Surely  this 
was  fate?  She  determined  to  test  this  belief;  let  it  lead 
her,  she  to  be  relieved  from  responsibility  in  the  result. 

"The  apartment  is  given  up,"  she  said  decidedly.     "I 


The  Next  Corner  69 

couldn't  stay  on  there.  An  hour  after  I  telephoned  to 
Countess  Verholst  that  I  was  leaving,  she  rented  it.  No, 
I'd  better  go  with  you." 

"If  you'd  rather.  I  want  you  to  be  contented."  This 
seemed  the  end,  when  Robert  added:  "You  could,  you 
know,  keep  out  what  trunks  you'd  need  and  stay  at  the 
Ritz  until  you  sail." 

The  Ritz!  That  added  its  temptation.  She  had  not 
hoped  ever  to  be  able  to  afford  that.  Yes,  it  would  be 
chic  to  stop  there  for  awhile  and  then  —  maybe  —  start 
for  Spain  with  Paula.  Still  she  held  to  her  resolve,  to 
what  instinct  counselled  as  wise. 

"If  I  did  that,  Robert,  I  could  go  back  on  the 
'Provence,'  with  the  Vance  Hamiltons.  But  I  know  Paula 
Vrain  would  keep  insisting  that  in  the  meantime  I  go  on 
with  her  —  You  know  Sidney  Vrain  in  London  — "  she 
broke  off,  "the  shipowner?" 

"Of   course.  —  Insisting  on   your   going  —  where?" 

"With  her  to  a  house  party  at  the  —  the  Marques  de 
Burgos's  place  in  the  Cantabrian  mountains  —  not  far 
into  them  —  and  they  are  in  the  north  of  Spain,  you 
know  —  only  across  the  border  from  France,  I 
imagine.  —  "  She  paused,  her  heart  beating  with  a  queer 
burning. 

Robert's  eyes  grew  a  bright  blue ;  he  tried  not  to  make 
them  eager.  But  Elsie  read  the  truth  in  them  and  remem- 
bered it  often,  afterward.  He  looked  the  capable  business 
man  disentangling  a  difficulty  with  ease. 

"Well,  go,"  he  said.     "Why  not?" 

"I  might  not  get  to  New  York  until  a  good  bit  later 
than  you.  I  ought  not  to  do  that  —  now  —  when  you're 
just  back  from  Burmah.  No  —  it  doesn't  matter." 

"I'll  have  to  be  about  New  York  for  a  month  or  so 
before  my  next  opportunity  is  ripe,  before  we  both  get 
on  the  wing  again,  so  a  short  delay  in  your  coming  home 
would  be  a  trifle.  I  haven't  had  time  as  yet  to  tell  you 
about  my  next  move,"  he  glowed.  "Salary  first  —  later 
shares  for  me  —  if  I  can  only  get  big  results  — !" 


70  The  Next  Corner 

"Aren't  you  going  to  live  in  New  York  after  this? 
Aren't  you  going  to  give  up  business  that  takes  you  to 
the  ends  of  the  world?  Surely  you're  not  going  to  keep 
on  this  way?  Surely  we'll  live  in  New  York?" 

,"Not  yet.  Maybe  not  for  a  year  or  two,"  he  said 
crisply  with  a  shrewd,  smiling  anticipation.  "South 
American  mines  —  Venezuela  —  are  on  the  tapis  for  us. 
I  know  the  country  well.  I've  already  made  an  offer  for 
a  big  hacienda  just  outside  Valencia  —  what  you'll  call 
a  dream  place  and  that  you'll  queen  it  over." 

Again  Elsie  felt  herself  the  pawn  moved  by  the  master 
player. 

"Queen  it  in  —  Venezuela  ?"  she  murmured. 

"Yes ;  while  I  go  after  the  biggest  thing  yet.  A 
million  for  me  —  no  less  —  if  it's  what  I  think  it  is." 

"Venezuela !"  she  murmured  with  slow  bitterness. 

"Lovely  place,"  Robert  said  again,  and  then  hurriedly  : 
"Well?  We  haven't  much  time  for  deciding.  What  do 
you  want  to  do?  Stop  on  here  and  go  for  your  look  at 
Spain?  Or  shall  we  keep  to  the  English  plan?" 

"Which  would  you  rather  I'd  do?  You  must  have 
some  preference,"  she  urged,  and  felt  the  hush  wind  a 
veil  about  her  as  before. 

"To  be  honest,"  said  Robert,  "it  seems  foolish  to  lug 
you  over  to  London  when  I'll  be  up  to  my  neck  in  business 
all  the  time  I'm  there;  and  a  shame  for  you  not  to  see 
Spain.  That's  what  I  think,  but  you  do  just  as  you 
like." 

"Spain,  then,"  she  said.  She  was  looking  down  at  her 
glove  as  she  jerked  it  on,  but  what  she  really  saw  was  a 
rambling,  vine-hung  house  on  a  mountain  top.  A  twink- 
ling dawn  seemed  to  break  within  her ;  she  felt  relaxed  in  a 
sudden  sweetness  as  if  moisture  cooled  her  skin.  "Spain 
—  since  —  you're  so  good,"' she  said  on  a  failing  breath. 


CHAPTER 

ELSIE  was  in  the  Sud-Express,  train  de  luxe.  She 
was  travelling  in  the  most  luxurious  way  possible.  In 
fact,  since  Robert's  persuasion  to  this  last,  tangential  di- 
version had  come  without  her  even  seeking  it,  she  had 
had  almost  a  week  of  the  most  delicious  wallowing  in 
luxury.  Certainly  he  was  generous.  What  a  sheaf  of 
mauve-pink,  highly  numbered  franc  notes  he  had  given 
her,  —  thousands ! 

She  could  not  help  feeling  that  by  a  princely  lavish- 
ness  he  had  sought  to  conciliate  himself  for  his  wish  to 
get  away  from  her.  The  woman  in  her,  while  it  did  not 
crave  him,  objected  to  this;  she  did  not  want  any  man 
who  could  mean  anything  to  her  to  suggest  an  ease  if 
relieved  of  her,  as  Robert  unconsciously  had  done.  Yes, 
assuredly  the  feminine  antennae  had  sensed  this.  Liberal 
to  a  fault,  excessively  attentive  in  his  hurried  arrange- 
ments for  her  comfort  at  the  Ritz,  and  then,  but  a  few 
hours  after  his  coming: 

"Good-by,  Elsie.  Have  a  good  time,  my  dear.  I'll 
be  up  to  my  eyes  in  business  in  London,  and  it  will  be 
one  continual  shop  talk  on  the  ship.  You'll  get  home  in 
a  few  weeks  with  those  Hamiltons  you  spoke  of.  Just  a 
little  while  and  we'll  meet  in  New  York.  I'll  be  at  the 
pier  for  you.  Good-by,  my  dear.  Get  everything  you 
want.  Have  a  good  time.  Good-by." 

Well,  here  she  was  —  free  —  tingling  with  that  delight 
in  danger  that  everything  connected  with  Arturo  com- 
municated to  her,  with  at  least  three  thousand  dollars  in 
money  in  her  bag  as  well  as  a  roughly  cut  emerald  on  the 
finest  of  chains,  the  sort  of  thing  for  which  she  had  often 
longed  sinfully.  Ah,  the  days  at  the  Ritz !  Luxury  was 

71 


72  The  Next  Corner 

sweet.  She  had  come  to  love  the  spacious  Place  Vendome 
from  the  sense  of  power  that  she  felt  every  time  she 
stepped  into  it  from  the  hotel.  She  had  come  to  have  a 
sun-warmed,  idling  feeling  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  that 
street  of  temptation  to  extravagance  so  unfittingly 
named.  Street  of  Peace,  indeed?  Never  that  before  for 
her  when  economy  had  strapped  her,  when  she  had  had  to 
produce  the  effect  of  modish  expensiveness  on  a  small  in- 
come. It  had  been  delicious  to  have  had  that  changed  as 
if  by  some  Aladdin. 

Mannequins  in  the  most  important  fashion  workshops 
of  the  world  had  paced  before  her,  while  she  felt  the  self- 
complacency  of  the  buying  customer.  Several  of  the 
gowns,  so  beguiling  in  their  shimmering  beauty  they  de- 
served a  lovelier  and  a  flowerlike  name,  she  had  purchased 
right  off  the  girls'  adorable  backs,  of  which  all  but  a 
fraction  at  the  girdle  was  allowed  to  be  seen.  And  she 
had  brought  two  with  her.  Yes,  she  had  not  been  able 
to  resist  them,  rough  and  simple  as  Paula  had  described 
life  at  El  Miradero  to  be. 

The  details  of  the  excursion  had  been  arranged  quite 
easily.  Having  seen  Robert  off  on  the  train  to  Dieppe, 
she  had  telephoned  to  Arturo's  apartment,  hoping  to  tell 
him  of  the  change  in  her  plans  before  he  left  Paris,  and 
had  been  able  only  to  get  Serafin.  It  was  the  first  time 
they  had  spoken  since  his  unwisdom  in  the  tea  shop. 
With  overelaborate  courtesy  he  stated  that  the  Senor 
Marques  had  already  departed  on  the  night  express  for 
Spain  with  his  cousins,  —  they  to  go  on  to  Burgos,  he 
to  the  mountains. 

"I  am  to  follow  to-morrow  and  will  then  inform  the 
Senor  Marques  that  you  are  to  arrive  at  El  Miradero 
later  in  the  week  with  Mrs.  Vrain,"  he  said.  "Mrs.  Vrain 
knows  everything  necessary  about  the  journey,  as  she 
has  taken  it  before,  yet  lest  Mrs.  Vrain  might  have  for- 
gotten anything  helpful  I  will,  with  your  permission,  send 
you  at  once  a  note  with  full  directions,  madame." 

The  next  day  Elsie   found   Paula.      She  was   in  her 


The  Next  Corner  73 

boudoir,  looking  astoundingly  ugly  with  her  hair  in 
strings  over  a  damp  towel  while  a  master  in  the  business 
smeared  it  with  wet  henna.  Her  maid  was  already  head 
down  in  a  sea  of  packing. 

"Ripping,  my  dear,  that  you  can  go !  But  I'm  off  to 
Bordeaux  first,  you  know,"  she  had  said,  while  managing 
to  smoke  between  the  dabs  of  the  man's  fingers  against 
her  ears.  "Duty  visit  —  beastly  —  but  necessary.  I'll 
cut  it  short  and  fly  on  to  San  Sebastian.  You'll  find  me 
waiting  for  you  there  —  that  is,  I'll  be  there,  unless  I 
find  that  I'll  be  able  to  motor  still  farther,  to  Bilbao, 
which  is  not  very  far  from  the  village  from  which  that 
mule  coach  I  told  you  about  goes  up  the  mountain.  So 
we'll  leave  it  that  way.  If  I'm  not  at  the  station  at  San 
Sebastian,  I'll  be  at  Bilbao.  Meanwhile  turn  yourself 
loose  for  three  or  four  days  on  the  Rue  de  la  Paix." 

After  that,  Paula,  having  sketched  all  the  phases  of 
the  journey,  had  sent  a  footman  to  buy  Elsie's  ticket  and 
to  reserve  a  compartment  for  her  well  ahead  in  the 
wagon-lit. 

"It's  nothing  of  a  trip.  One  night  on  the  train  —  then 
all  the  rest  is  easy,  dreamy,  delicious,"  Paula  had  genially 
declared. 

And  so  Elsie  had  found  it.  Through  the  golden  evening 
the  moments  had  been  reeled  off  as  from  well-oiled  ma- 
chinery, and  she  arose  early  to  watch  for  the  first  sight 
of  the  Pyrenees  which,  though  appearing  while  she  was 
still  in  France,  would  be  as  the  doorway  into  Spain. 
When  their  pale,  far,  waving  peaks  came  with  a  solemn 
sort  of  suddenness  out  of  the  early  mist,  a  warm  feeling 
as  of  being  greeted  went  over  her.  Spain  was  no  longer 
a  country  to  be  reached  after  a  journey.  Nor  was  Ar- 
turo  at  a  distance;  he  even  seemed  there,  facing  her, 
smoking  in  his  dreamy,  Spanish  way,  his  eyes  with  brood- 
ing anger  and  misery  fixed  on  her  as  they  had  been  so 
constantly  in  the  battle  that  had  gone  on  between  them. 

Through  the  days  at  the  Ritz  she  had  schooled  herself 
in  a  new  determination.  Nothing  was  going  to  happen 


74  The  Next  Corner 

during  this  visit  that  would  cause  her  regret  afterward. 
She  would  be  very  sensible,  cautious.  She  would  keep 
close  to  Paula  and  others  of  the  guests,  avoiding  any 
hours  apart  with  Arturo.  He  must  be  made  to  see  clearly 
from  the  first  moment  that  though  she  had  come  for  this 
chapter  with  him,  it  was  the  last  chapter,  finis  already 
written. 

She  gave  a  few  moments'  unmixed  thought  here  to 
Robert,  especially  to  a  letter  from  him  that  had  reached 
her  at  the  Ritz  just  before  she  left ;  this  told  her  that 
the  business  in  London  had  been  rushed  through,  that  he 
was  sailing  for  New  York  that  day.  She  also  thought 
very  clearly,  and  quite  without  emotion,  of  his  strength 
and  kindness. 

A  look  into  the  mirror  of  her  vanity  case  brought 
a  wondering,  half-amused  shrug.  How  she  had  gibed 
at  his  criticism  —  and  behold !  —  it  had  borne  fruit,  for 
her  face  was  but  lightly  touched  with  the  pencils  and 
powders.  Of  course  he  had  been  right.  The  habit  of 
plastering  one's  self  into  a  Pierrot  can  grow  into  a  sort 
of  debauch  without  one's  realizing  it.  She  had  a  sense  of 
his  approval  the  while  she  pictured  him  leaning  on  a  deck 
rail,  smoking  a  pipe,  the  droll,  little  sun  lines  showing 
about  his  eyes. 

This  typical  memory  of  him  strengthened  her  resolve 
in  wisdom.  She  owed  this  to  him  for  the  royal  trust  with 
which  he  had  sent  her  on  her  way.  And  there  was  her 
life  - —  perhaps  a  long  one  —  to  be  spent  with  him.  It 
could  only  be  bearable  if  she  had  nothing  to  hide  that 
she  felt  placed  her  outside  his  forgiveness.  Yet  from  the 
mountain  epilogue  she  would  get  some  happiness,  —  the 
pale  and  tender  glow  that  belongs  to  renunciation.  This 
would  spread  through  the  secret  niches  of  her  spirit,  and 
in  the  years  to  come,  as  retrospection,  it  would  effuse  a 
ghostly  sweetness  into  gray  days. 

When  Irun  was  passed  and  she  neared  San  Sebastian, 
the  excitement  born  of  novelty  mixed  with  her  sane  and 
confident  mood.  Soon  she  would  be  beside  Paula  in  her 


The  Next  Corner  75 

motor ;  soon  on  the  thin,  chill,  mountain  air  that  she  had 
always  felt  in  fancy  from  her  first  longing  for  this  ex- 
perience, she  would  hear  Arturo  speak  to  her  again,  a 
cluster  of  his  holiday-making,  Spanish  friends  about  him  ^ 
carefree  days  would  follow  under  his  roof  in  a  setting  of 
beauty.  Oh,  life  was  an  alluring  thing,  a  draught  of 
many  flavors  that  mingled  to  make  something  so  wonder- 
ful one  would  have  nothing  missing  from  it,  —  no,  not 
even  the  pain ! 

If,  as  some  believe,  powers  for  evil  and  good  hover  un- 
seen about  us,  some  grim  presence  may  have  smiled  darkly 
as  Elsie  rejoiced  in  the  thought  of  this  mixed  blend  of 
emotions,  seeing  that  she  had  missed  the  vital  truth  about 
it,  —  how,  with  bitterest  grief  and  disappointment,  life's 
sweet  savor  can  endure,  but  only  to  that  one  who  remains 
firm  in  self-control;  how  strength  is  another  name  for 
happiness ;  and  weakness  alone  makes  the  slavery  that 
slays  hope. 

Paula  was  not  at  San  Sebastian.  After  breakfast, 
Elsie  went  on  to  Bilbao  on  a  branch  line.  Her  anticipa- 
tion had  gone  into  a  childish  depression.  She  had  counted 
so  surely  on  seeing  the  Englishwoman's  coarse,  good- 
humored  face  turned  to  her  in  smiling  welcome  that  miss- 
ing it  sent  the  sun  under  a  cloud.  And  now  her  thoughts 
fastened  on  Bilbao  with  a  running  thrill  of  suspense. 

Everything  that  she  saw  from  the  train  that  was  typi- 
cally Spanish  helped  to  divert  her:  the  first  mantilla;  the 
first  carabinero  in  blue  uniform  and  white  shako;  squat, 
heavy-browed  houses  of  various,  bright  tints ;  the  Chinese 
suggestion  in  the  high  cheek  bones  of  the  Basque 
peasants,  reminding  her  of  Serafin,  carnations  in  heaps 
in  venders'  baskets ;  an  oxcart,  the  animals  yoked  to- 
gether with  a  great  bar  hung  with  sheepskin,  scarlet 
fringes  dancing  above  their  eyes ;  a  priest  coming  down 
a  white  road  on  a  donkey.  And  in  a  larger  sense, 
wherever  her  eyes  rested,  the  encompassing  beauty!  — 
roads  twisting  like  ribbons  unwound  from  a  great  spool, 
deep  glens,  twinkling  streams,  and  above  them  flashing 


76  The  Next  Corner 

in  sunlight  the  peaks  of  the  Cantabrian  mountains  toward 
which  she  was  to  journey.  With  all  of  these  impressions 
the  meeting  with  Paula,  a  shadowy  picture,  would  dance 
in  and  out. 

And  now  the  long  tunnel  leading  to  Bilbao  was  reached. 
Elsie  gathered  her  smallest  hand  luggage  and  made  ready, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  nervous  and  over-eager  traveler, 
to  quit  the  compartment  at  the  earliest  instant  possible. 
When  the  train  stopped,  her  eyes  swept  the  waiting  crowd 
for  a  familiar  face,  Paula's,  perhaps  at  once ;  if  not,  then 
her  chauffeur's  or  her  maid's.  None  of  these  came  out 
of  the  sea  of  features  where  every  mouth  was  moving 
rapidly  in  a  chatter  that  made  a  noise  like  fine  machinery, 
and  the  tension  about  her  heart  was  hardening  to  a  ques- 
tioning distress  when  she  saw  Serafin. 

He  was  but  a  few  yards  from  the  train  as  she 
descended,  his  hat  lifted  above  his  swarthy,  priestly  face. 
She  had  not  imagined  that  he  could  ever  bring  her  the 
relief  which  came  now  at  sight  of  him.  But  he  repre- 
sented reality  at  the  end  of  this  lonely  dream- journey. 
He  was  something  that  steadied  her,  made  her  see  beyond 
him  all  the  rest  of  the  experience  waiting  for  her. 

So  she  greeted  him  with  a  sparkling  gladness  and  he 
received  it  gratefully,  with  marked  respect.  To  her  first 
questions  about  Paula  he  made  hurried  replies.  He  had 
not  seen  Mrs.  Vrain,  not  yet ;  and  fearing  some  delay  on 
her  part  had  —  on  his  own  responsibility,  not  having  been 
directed  to  do  so  by  the  Senor  Marques  —  taken  the  pre- 
caution to  arrange  for  a  few  seats  in  a  motor  omnibus 
that  took  passengers  to  where  the  mule  coach  started. 
And  he  would  search  for  Mrs.  Vrain  again  as  soon  as  he 
had  seen  the  luggage  through  the  Customs,  if  madame 
would  wait  until  he  was  at  liberty.  Meanwhile,  seated 
comfortably  in  the  spot  he  selected,  she  could  keep  on  the 
lookout  for  her  friend. 

This  Elsie  did  and  so  unsuccessfully  that  as  the  mo- 
ments passed  a  cold  animosity  toward  Paula  crept  over 
her.  It  had  been  horrid  in  the  first  place  for  her  to  have 


The  Next  Corner  77 

insisted  that  no  maid  but  her  own  Athenee  would  be  nec- 
essary ;  while  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  Julie  to  have 
left  her  husband,  Elsie  felt  she  could  have  been  persuaded 
to  go  with  her,  and  with  Julie  beside  her  nothing  could 
have  made  her  feel  as  amiss  as  she  did  at  that  moment. 
It  had  also  been  horrid  of  Paula  not  to  have  managed  ar- 
riving at  San  Sebastian  on  time,  horrid  to  have  treated 
a  woman  friend  so.  And  here  was  the  second  place  of 
meeting  that  she  had  named,  and  she  was  late ! 

This  was  her  mood  when  Serafin  joined  her,  with 
porters  bearing  her  small  trunk  and  dressing  bag.  He 
had  attended  to  everything.  He  had  not  seen  Mrs. 
Vrain.  She  was  not  at  the  station.  And  now  they  must 
hurry  on. 

"But  we  can't  hurry  on!"  Elsie  protested.  "We  can't 
go  without  Mrs.  Vrain!" 

He  gave  a  prolonged  and  peaceful  shrug.  "Of  course, 
as  you  wish,  madame,  but  I  would  have  to  leave  you.  If 
I  do  not  catch  the  coach,  there  will  be  no  way  for  me  to 
go  up  until  to-morrow  at  this  time.  What  I  believe  is 
this  —  Mrs.  Vrain,  detained  by  some  trouble  to  the  car 
on  the  road  and  realizing  her  failure  to  meet  your  train, 
will,  no  doubt,  come  on  by  a  short  cut  over  the  mountains. 
You  see,  madame?  Why  should  you  wait  here  since,  in 
all  probability,  Mrs.  Vrain  will  not  now  come  to  Bilbao 
at  all  —  as  why  should  she,  with  a  powerful  motor  to 
simplify  matters?" 

"She  might  think  that  no  one  would  come  to  meet  me, 
and  she'd  look  for  me  here,  no  matter  how  late,"  Elsie 
said,  not  a  flavor  of  hope  in  the  tone. 

"Ah,  no,"  he  smiled  gently,  "she  understands  the  Senor 
Marques  better  than  that.  And  now  you  must  decide, 
madame  —  we  have  not  a  moment.  I  feel  sure  that  when 
we  reach  El  Miradero,  Mrs.  Vrain  will  already  be  there." 

It  seemed  to  Elsie  that  decision  was  taken  from  her. 
Her  brain  was  humming.  She  could  think  of  nothing 
better  than  what  Serafin  urged.  So  while  insisting  on 
going  with  him  for  a  last  hurried  look  about  the  station, 


78  The  Next  Corner 

from  which  the  crowd  had  thinned  to  a  few  scattered 
groups,  she  gave  herself  into  his  charge. 

She  was  indifferent  to  the  interesting  notes  on  the  rest 
of  the  journey;  they  passed  from  her  distressed  mind 
without  recording  themselves  save  in  a  cloudy  way.  In 
the  motor  omnibus,  even  afterward  in  the  loose- jointed, 
mountain  coach  with  its  five  mules  on  a  string,  its  noisy 
jingling,  and  radiantly  arrayed  driver  in  green  velvet 
trousers  and  scarlet  boina  —  all  of  which  would  have  been 
a  delightful  novelty  to  her  in  a  happy  mood  —  she  sat 
pale  and  absorbed.  Her  anger  against  Paula  had 
changed  to  sensitive  pain.  She  was  hurt,  and  deeply,  at 
having  been  left  to  this  solitary  role  in  their  adventure. 
Surely  this  was  the  result  of  a  rooted  selfishness  on 
Paula's  part,  the  worldly  casualness  that  so  easily  can 
become  cruelty;  really  what  might  be  called  a  social  mis- 
demeanor. 

tflf  women  were  kind  to  each  other,  if  they  stood  by 
each  other  as  men  do  by  men,  a  mistake  like  this  could 
not  happen,"  Elsie  thought. 

Two  hours  later,  when  more  than  half  of  the  journey 
was  done,  she  gave  a  violent  start,  fairly  jerked  from  her 
reverie  on  realizing  that  because  of  the  ferment  of  her 
thoughts  she  had  missed  seeing  the  one  sure  road  out  of 
the  uncertainty,  —  how  easily  Serafin  could  have  gone 
on,  leaving  her  to  wait  in  the  best  hotel  in  Bilbao  until 
Paula,  arriving  at  El  Miradero  by  some  shorter  route, 
would  have  sent  down  her  car  for  her.  Oh,  she  had  been 
stupid !  And  now  it  was  too  late. 

One  of  the  Spaniards  seated  near  her,  pretending  to 
read  a  paper  but  really  devouring  her  thistle-down  blond- 
ness  with  glowing  eyes,  saw  her  lips  shake  of  a  sudden  as 
a  child's  do  before  a  fit  of  weeping ;  saw  her  turn  and  give 
a  wild,  lingering  look  of  regret  back  along  the  rough 
descent. 


CHAPTER   IX 

ONE  after  the  other  the  passengers  had  left  the  coach, 
and  for  more  than  an  hour  Elsie  and  Serafin  had  been 
alone  in  it.  He  sat  with  the  red-capped  driver  who  at 
times  would  hop  down  to  even  the  sagging  mules  and  en- 
courage them  with  a  whooping  chant  that  the  gorges  took 
up  until  it  seemed  that  a  crowd  of  unseen  runners  sur- 
rounded them,  repeating  it: 

"Ea!  Ea!  Arrel  Mulo!"  And  again:  "Ea!  Eal 
Arrel  Mulo!" 

The  shouts  depressed  Elsie,  adding,  as  they  did,  to  the 
strangeness  of  the  scene  and  her  loneliness.  Her  eyes 
were  observant  now,  looking  sharply  to  every  turning, 
hoping  it  would  give  signs  of  the  journey's  end.  And 
what  a  long  dragging  journey  it  had  been  and  still  was; 
a  steady  three  hours'  climb  up  the  winding  roads  through 
woods  of  beech  and  walnut,  over  rough  bridges,  over  ra- 
vines, even  over  mountain  torrents.  Through  what  soli- 
tudes !  How  removed  from  human  life  —  from  any  life ! 
—  for  there  seemed  to  be  no  birds  in  those  slanted  woods, 
and  hours  had  passed  since  the  last  tinkling  of  cowbells 
was  heard. 

It  had  been  scorching  in  the  village  from  which  they 
started,  and  at  the  beginning  of  the  ascent  sunlight  had 
filled  the  coach.  Now  the  interior  was  thick  shadow.  And 
when  a  clearing  at  one  height  was  reached,  Elsie  became 
aware  that  the  gloom  was  not  only  from  the  twilight. 
Clouds  of  smoky  darkness  moved  rapidly  over  the  sky 
and  lightning  played  almost  continuously,  though  with- 
out any  sound  of  thunder,  on  the  imperial  peaks  in  the 
distance. 

She  took  a  seat  nearer  to  Serafin,  and  as  she  spoke  Jie 
turned. 

79 


80  The  Next  Corner 

"How  quickly  this  storm  has  come,"  she  said.  Her 
voice  had  a  wan  sound. 

"It  is  not  a  storm  -yet,  madame,"  he  assured  her. 
"Often  this  darkness  leaps  into  view  up  here  and  then 
plunges  below.  Sometimes  at  El  Miradero  we  look  down 
on  rain  clouds  that  are  sending  torrents  into  the  lower 
valleys  and  not  a  drop  is  falling  about  us." 

The  words  did  not  comfort  Elsie.  She  drew  back,  cold- 
ness creeping  through  her  as  she  realized  that  it  was  the 
descent  through  the  valleys  that  interested  her,  calm 
weather  down  there  that  seemed  at  the  moment  urgently 
important  to  her.  This  was  curious.  She  wondered 
about  it.  And  as  she  sat  in  the  gloom,  her  cold  hands 
locked,  she  saw  that  the  thought  of  her  return,  perhaps 
a  quick  one,  had  been  with  her  while  going  upward.  Be- 
fore reaching  El  Miradero,  in  spirit  she  had  seen  herself 
departing  from  it,  because  in  spirit  she  had  some  dark 
knowledge  that  Paula  would  not  be  waiting  for  her  there. 

A  small  house,  two-storied  and  low-browed,  of  crumb- 
ling yellow  stone,  with  roof  of  red  tiles,  and  so  built  on 
the  projection  of  a  mountain  it  seemed  to  cling  by  talons 
over  perpendicular  depths ;  a  rude  balcony  on  the  preci- 
pice side  and  on  that  which  looked  over  a  garden  facing 
the  road ;  through  several  openings  on  this  balcony  — 
called  windows,  although  they  were  only  big  square  cuts 
in  the  stone,  without  glass  —  a  dusky  interior  of  velvety 
richness;  salmon-pink,  apricot  and  crimson  carnations, 
planted  so  that  they  seemed  a  flounce  of  contrasting 
brilliance  against  the  lower  part  of  the  yellow  walls ; 
vines  crawling  about  every  casement.  This  was  El  Mira- 
dero. 

Arturo  came  through  one  of  the  balcony  doorways  on 
the  side  away  from  the  abyss  and  stood  looking  down  the 
mountain.  The  Paris  pallor  was  still  on  his  face,  but  he 
wore  country  clothes  that  had  seen  hard  service  —  hob- 
nailed shoes  and  yarn  stockings,  corduroy  breeches,  a 
jacket  that  hung  hussar-fashion  from  one  shoulder,  a 
flannel  shirt,  a  soft  velour  hat  pulled  over  the  eyes.  He 


The  Next  Corner  v  81 

looked  abstracted,  ill  at  ease.  After  a  dull  gaze  into  the 
distance  he  vaulted  over  the  railing  and  crossed  the 
garden. 

Here,  one  of  his  two  men  servants,  a  lad  of  about  seven- 
teen, rested  against  a  wall  from  which  a  long  view  of  the 
dipping  road,  around  a  curve  that  took  in  miles,  could 
be  seen.  "Nothing  except  the  coach  has  passed,  excel- 
lentisimo,"  the  boy  said  in  answer  to  his  questioning  look. 
"That  turned  the  corner  twenty  minutes  since." 

"Very  well.  You  need  not  wait,  Aniceto."  And  when 
he  had  gone  silently  on  his  alpargatas  —  those  peace- 
producing,  linen-soled  shoes  that  Spanish  servants  wear 
—  Arturo  lighted  a  cigarette  and  took  his  place. 

He  felt  puzzled.  Since  the  early  afternoon  he  had  been 
expecting  the  throb  of  Paula's  motor  up  the  mountain,  a 
luncheon  of  the  Spanish  dishes  that  she  especially  liked  — 
fresh  tunny  fish  in  a  steak,  and  pisto,  where  eggs  were 
fried  in  oil  with  peppers  and  pimientos  —  waiting  to  be 
cooked  the  instant  she  arrived.  If  she  had  met  Elsie  at 
San  Sebastian  as  she  had  written  him  she  meant  to  do, 
in  such  a  car  as  hers  they  should  have  arrived  hours  ago ; 
if  the  meeting  had  been  deferred  until  Bilbao,  they  should 
have  arrived  at  about  the  same  time  or  only  a  little  later. 
Yet  he  was  still  waiting.  And  now  the  mule  coach  was 
almost  due  —  the  crawling  coach  —  so  it  could  only  mean 
that  Serafin  was  returning  and  probably  without  news  of 
them. 

From  the  first  he  had  been  humble  about  Elsie's  visit  to 
El  Miradero,  absolutely  honest  with  Paula  Vrain  when 
he  had  begged:  "Only  delay  her  return  to  America.  I 
don't  look  beyond  that.  Probably  I  could  bear  her  going 
then,  when  I'd  got  used  to  it."  This  had  seemed  to  fail 
and  he  had  left  Paris  believing  he  had  seen  Elsie  for  the 
last  time,  only  to  have  heard  from  Serafin  that  the  Fate 
he  believed  in  had  interposed  and  instead  of  sending  her 
across  the  seas  was  hurrying  her  to  him  in  his  beloved 
wilderness.  So  his  disappointment  was  two-edged  since 
after  several  days  of  a  covetous,  morbidly  troubled  sort 


82  The  Next  Corner 

of  delight  that  had  tried  to  keep  the  looming  farewell  out 
of  the  picture,  he  was  to  suffer  again.  She  had  not  come. 
Something  had  happened.  Or  she  had  changed  her  mind, 
perhaps  because  Paula  had  changed  hers,  and  he  was  not 
to  see  her  at  all. 

The  driver's  shouts  and  the  clanking  of  the  mules'  har- 
ness came  clearly  to  him.  He  stepped  into  the  road.  As 
the  coach  came  on  a  last  triumphant  lurch  to  the  upland 
valley  where  he  stood,  he  saw  Serafin  with  the  driver  and 
—  scarcely  believing  his  eyes  —  saw  beyond  him  Elsie's 
face  looking  anxiously  from  the  thick  shadow.  His  body, 
that  had  been  chilled,  warmed  in  a  rush.  Questions 
seemed  to  laugh  and  scamper  from  him.  No  matter  how, 
or  why,  she  was  there,  in  the  coach!  She  was  there! 
Joy  made  him  dizzy,  and  his  face  a  flash  of  happiness  as 
he  pulled  on  his  coat,  he  ran  to  meet  her. 

It  is  a  curious  phase  of  intense  infatuation  that  in  try- 
ing to  recall  the  expressions  and  tricks  of  manner  of  the 
one  beloved,  memory  will  often  fail  altogether,  so  that  a 
meeting  will  strike  with  the  freshness  of  a  first,  entranced 
look ;  an  effect  of  singular  power.  This  unexpected  thing 
cast  its  spell  over  Arturo  so  that  he  gazed,  stilled,  al- 
most astounded,  at  Elsie,  feeling  her  charm  as  no  living- 
ness  of  fancy  had  given  it  to  him. 

She  was  an  appealing  sight.  Her  delicately  cut  face 
was  fatigued,  and  through  a  film  of  veiling  and  above  the 
high  collar  of  a  blue  military  cloak  it  suggested  a  flower 
dimmed  by  travel  dust ;  from  the  pale  hair  coiled  against 
her  ears,  wisps  glittered  on  the  -air  like  blown  corn  silk ; 
as  she  moved  a  lovely  fragrance  came  from  her  clothes 
and  mixed  with  the  spice  of  a  huge  bunch  of  carnations 
that  she  had  bought  from  a  peasant  on  the  way  and  held 
pressed  against  her  breast.  She  seemed  to  him  an  accum- 
ulation of  all  sweet  and  beckoning  things. 

Yet  as  the  details  of  courtesy  make  the  sign-manual  of 
high  breeding  to  the  Spaniard,  Arturo  instinctively  kept 
sight  of  those  in  which  he  had  been  reared,  conquered  the 
visible  signs  of  his  lover's  heart.  With  a  striking  gravity, 


The  Next  Corner  83 

and  bareheaded,  he  helped  Elsie  to  the  ground.  He  took 
the  flowers  from  her  and  gave  them  to  Aniceto,  who  had 
come  running  at  sound  of  the  coach's  arrival.  Holding 
both  her  hands  he  lifted  them  slowly,  and  in  turn,  to  his 
lips. 

"Welcome,  Elsie,  to  El  Miradero,"  he  said  with  charm- 
ing quietude  and  sincerity,  and  then  glowingly  in  Span- 
ish :  "My  house  is  yours !  My  heart  is  beneath  your  feet !" 

There  was  silence  as  she  waited  for  him  to  say  that  for 
which  she  had  ceased  to  hope. 

"Paula!  She's  not  here?"  The  tone  was  thin,  re- 
pressed. 

"Not  yet,"  and  as  the  rain  started  with  violence 
he  put  his  hand  under  her  arm  and  raced  her  in  a  joyous 
way  through  the  garden. 

At  Elsie's  question  illumination  had  spread  through 
Arturo.  He  had  seen  his  last  moment  with  Paula  at  the 
Longueval  house  when  she  had  said :  "I  mean  to  help  you 
—  thoroughly.  That's  the  way  I  am ;  absolutely  indif- 
ferent, or  a  mistress  of  detail  who  spares  no  pains !"  — 
and  he  had  seen  the  watching  smile  she  had  kept  upon  him 
as  she  went  down  the  stairs.  Paula  was  not  coming; 
probably  had  never  meant  to  come.  He  pushed  the 
troublesome  thought  away  so  that  he  might  delight  to 
the  full  in  one,  —  that  Elsie  was  at  his  side.  Let  events 
take  what  course  they  might,  nothing  could  alter  that. 
She  was  with  him  again. 

"Paula  is  late;  that's  all,"  he  thought  it  well  to  add, 
as  they  reached  the  door  on  the  balcony. 

"Late?"  Elsie  echoed  with  accusation.  "She  has  failed 
me  everywhere !" 

"Well,  isn't  she  always  full  of  whims  and  surprises? 
By  the  time  you've  changed  for  dinner,  she'll  come  tearing 
into  sight  up  the  mountain." 

She  jerked  her  arm  from  him  and  stopped  sharply  on 
the  threshold  to  look  back.  The  downpour  was  hissing 
through  a  deepening  fog.  The  terraces  of  mountains 
were  smoky  monoliths  except  when  revealed  by  the 


84  The  Next  Corner 

lightning,  now  continual  blue-white  glares.  She  looked 
down  at  the  valley  she  had  left,  and  it  had  gone,  —  in  its 
place  a  black  pit. 

"Never  mind  the  storm !  We'll  shut  it  out !  You  must 
have  some  refresco  and  then  I'll  take  you  to  your  room. 
It's  off  Paula's  so  that  you  two  can  have  long  bedroom 
talks  at  night !" 

With  excited  happiness  he  took  off  her  wet  cloak  and 
drew  her  to  a  small  table  where  a  queerly-shaped  jug  of 
cold  wine  with  sliced  fruit  in  it  and  a  tray  of  sandwiches 
stood.  As  she  had  not  eaten  since  breakfast  a  weary  sort 
of  hunger  helped  the  weight  on  Elsie's  spirit,  and  at  his 
gay  command  she  both  ate  and  drank  a  little.  Afterward, 
when  he  opened  a  door  for  her  on  the  upper  floor,  he 
paused  there  and  again  made  her  welcome  in  the  gravely 
gracious,  Spanish  way.  She  listened,  and  from  her  under- 
sense  of  trouble  could  not  reply. 

"You  are  at  home  —  'su  casa?  —  as  we  say,"  he  con- 
tinued wistfully,  and  looking  very  boyish  in  the  loose, 
rough  clothes,  his  black  hair,  usually  so  sleek,  roughened 
over  the  brows,  while  he  held  her  hand  gently  in  both  of 
his  as  if  it  were  a  small  bird  he  guarded  there.  "You 
must  be  very  happy,  Elsie,  at  El  Miradero!" 

She  smiled,  nodded  jerkily  and  went  in.  At  once  the 
set  look  and  steady  step  that  her  will  had  managed  fell 
away,  and  in  an  apathetic  sort  of  confusion  she  stood 
with  her  weight  against  the  closed  door,  seeing  the  odd 
room  only  through  a  blur.  Later  its  plaster  walls  painted 
a  bright  blue,  the  spangled  shrine  beside  the  rough,  iron 
bed  that  yet  was  covered  by  a  wine-colored  velvet  cope 
embroidered  with  gold  and  evidently  centuries  old,  made 
their  appeal  to  her.  Not  now.  She  left  the  door.  Still 
with  her  hat  on,  she  sank  on  a  chair  beside  the  trunk  that, 
at  Serafin's  direction,  had  been  conveniently  placed  and 
opened  for  her.  For  a  long  time  she  remained  so,  chin 
on  her  doubled  hand,  hardening  herself,  struggling  for 
composure. 

One  thing  became  as  flawlessly  clear  as  sunlight  on  a 


The  Next  Corner  85 

steel  shield;  if  Paula  did  not  arrive  at  El  Miradero, 
nothing  would  win  her  to  remain  there  for  the  night.  She 
would  wait  for  one  hour.  If  by  that  time  Paula  had  not 
come,  —  then  the  journey  down  the  mountain! 

The  storm  seemed  to  reply  to  this  resolve  with  screech- 
ing derision.  Go  back?  As  memory  showed  her  the 
plunging  and  twisting  roads,  edging  ravines,  over  which 
she  had  been  dragged  for  hours  and  then  made  a  picture 
of  the  hobgoblin  pandemonium  they  would  be  on  a  night 
like  this,  she  stood  up,  her  hushed  face  turned  to  the 
closed,  wooden  shutters  that  had  need  of  their  strong 
latches.  The  rain  was  attacking  them  with  the  noise  of 
loosened  rivers ;  the  wind  had  split  into  contrary  gales 
with  the  raucous  voices  of  Communistic  hags. 

And  after  she  had  stood  still  for  a  while  listening  to  the 
clamor,  the  inner  silence  of  the  house  suddenly  took  on 
some  meaning  full  of  cloudy  trouble.  She  opened  the 
door  and  stepped  out,  with  no  clearer  purpose  than  to 
find  Arturo,  confide  her  vexation,  and  get  his  promise  to 
have  her  taken  back  to  Bilbao  as  soon  as  she  felt  she  must 

go- 
Turning  a  corner  she  found  herself  on  a  rudely  built 

little  gallery  that  overlooked  the  living  room.  She  was  in 
deep  shadow;  from  below  the  lovely  beaming  that  mixed 
firelight  and  candlelight  give  swept  up.  Yet  instead  of 
hurrying  down  she  hesitated  there,  keeping  well  out  of 
view.  She  did  this  without  a  defined  reason,  while  through 
her  surreptitious  sort  of  stealth  some  separated  thought 
was  trying  to  get  at  her  mind,  seeking  assurance,  as  a 
small,  worried  thing  will  hunt  for  a  corner  into  which  it 
can  crawl. 

The  sounds  of  the  house  were  soft  and  came  to  her 
clearly  here:  servants  speaking;  Serafin's  answer  to  a 
distant  call  from  Arturo ;  later,  and  a  little  nearer,  an- 
other command  from  Arturo ;  and  again  Serafin's  reply. 
No  other  voice  than  these  four.  The  mole-like  uneasiness 
had  clear  outlines,  —  there  was  no  evidence  of  the  other 
guests;  there  had  been  no  mention  of  them. 


86  The  Next  Corner 

She  went  close  to  the  rail,  from  which  she  had  a  good 
view  of  the  room.  This  was  beautiful,  its  mountain  sim- 
plicity mixed  with  odd,  rich  notes  making  for  comfort. 
The  solid  part  of  a  tree  blazed  on  a  deep  hearth  and  gave 
out  hissing  paroxysms  when  spray  came  down  the 
chimney.  The  wide  chairs  were  of  planks.  There  were 
couches  with  skins  over  them.  A  large  desk  that  faced 
the  wall,  its  high  back  to  the  room,  seemed  an  early 
Spanish  model  of  oak,  black  from  age  and  with  the  deep- 
seated  glow  of  ancient  things.  Another  striking  effect 
came  from  the  table;  though  but  an  oblong  of  heavy 
planks,  its  appointments,  even  to  shaded  candles  and 
flowers  in  small  vases,  were  fitting  for  a  formal  dinner  in 
Paris.  Her  look  was  held  by  it.  It  was  set  for  three. 
Paula  was  of  course  the  third,  and  she  was  still  absent. 
Under  that  roof,  then,  no  one  was  with  Arturo  but  the 
men  in  his  employ  and  herself. 

A  dismayed  moment  engulfed  her.  She  came  out  of  it 
shaken,  her  breath  difficult.  Paula  had  fed  her  with  every 
sort  of  lie.  They  could  only  have  been  a  bait  to  get  her 
to  El  Miradero  and  find  herself  alone  there  with  Arturo. 
Paula's  lies?  Were  they  not  also  Arturo's?  Had  Paula 
been  anything  more  than  his  cat's-paw?  A  burning  hatred 
of  the  woman  swept  over  Elsie.  When,  as  the  feeling 
ebbed,  she  struggled  to  hate  Arturo  too,  all  she  could  feel 
was  a  disappointment  that  filled  her  like  a  sickness  and 
turned  the  necessary  accounting  with  him  into  a  thing 
of  misery. 

She  had  taken  a  few  steps  toward  the  stairs  when  his 
voice  came  up  and  with  the  ring  of  such  sharp  anger  in 
it,  she  drew  back  and  waited  in  the  darkness.  She 
saw  him  cross  the  room  and  come  to  full  view  before  the 
fire.  He  had  dressed  informally.  In  his  dinner  jacket 
he  was  again  the  man  she  had  known  in  Paris,  but  the 
look  on  his  face,  a  cold  sternness  with  perplexity,  was 
new  to  her.  His  gesture  summoning  Serafin  to  come 
nearer  —  an  abrupt  jerk  of  his  thumb  toward  himself  — 
was  contemptuous  rebuke. 


The  Next  Corner  87 

She  saw  him  look  into  the  Basque's  face,  and  it  was 
plain  that  with  a  frozen  sort  of  anger  he  had  begun  ac- 
cusing him  of  something  for  which  Serafin,  with  suave 
shrugs  and  the  constant  outspreading  of  his  dark  hands, 
was  making  respectful  excuses.  Their  Spanish  was  rapid 
and  subdued  and  her  knowledge  of  the  language  slight. 
She  could  only  watch;  only  glean  from  the  constant  re- 
currence of  her  name  and  Paula's  that  Arturo  was  en- 
raged at  Serafin  for  something  connected  with  them  both. 

Her  disquiet  lessened  under  the  strength  of  her  long- 
ing to  acquit  Arturo  of  treachery ;  this  gave  her  heart  a 
big  fullness.  And  when  one  phrase  in  Spanish  that  she 
could  understand  came  from  him  cuttingly,  she  rejoiced: 

"Paula  is  a  devil,"  Arturo  said.  "She  is  nothing  less 
than  a  devil  to  have  done  this!  And  you — -you,  are  no 
better !" 

While  he  was  still  speaking  he  saw  Elsie,  except  for 
her  cloak  dressed  as  when  she  left  the  coach,  hurrying 
down  the  narrow  stairs  to  him.  As  he  went  to  meet  her 
and  drew  her  to  the  fire,  Serafin  went  out. 

"I  understood  a  little,"  Elsie  said,  the  flare  showing  up 
the  desperation  of  her  face.  "You'll  get  me  out  of  this, 
Arturo.  From  what  you  said  to  Serafin  I  know  it's  all 
Paula's  fault  —  why  she  did  it  I  don't  know.  I'm  only 
glad  it  was  not  you  who  tricked  me  into  coming  here  — " 
The  words  broke.  "Your  only  guest !" 

Her  look  implored  him  to  contradict  this.  His  silence 
was  a  reply. 

"Am  I  —  the  only  one  here?" 

"Paula  told  you  that  there  were  to  be  others?" 

"She  said  you  were  to  have  a  house  party.  From  the 
very  first,  she  said  that!" 

"I  never  intended  it.  I  never  told  her  so.  She  must 
have  been  enraged  because  I  wanted  you  here.  She's 
tricked  us  both  —  laughing  at  us  both." 

Elsie  sat  down  heavily.  Furious  weeping  jolted  over 
her.  "What  a  cat!"  she  blurted.  "Cruel,  smiling  cat! 
I  hate  her !" 


The  Next  Corner 

"So  do  I,"  Arturo  said  in  a  still,  icy  way.  "I'm 
angry  —  and  I'm  sorry.  You  do  believe  me?" 

"I  do  —  oh,  yes,"  she  said  as  well  as  she  could,  adding 
on  a  hurried  breath,  "Never  mind  that  now.  What  are 
we  to  do  ?  You  must  do  something  —  get  something  to 
take  me  down  to  that  place  we  started  from,  and  I'll  stay 
there  if  I  can't  go  on  to  Bilbao  to-night." 

As  instead  of  moving  he  grew  more  grave,  she  tugged 
at  his  hands.  "Don't  you  hear,  Arturo?" 

"I  have  to  tell  you — "  he  muttered  and  stopped;  the 
lids  came  down  over  his  somber  gaze. 

"What?"  she  asked  with  dread.  "You  must  get  some- 
thing to  take  me  down  —  now !  I  won't  stay  for  dinner. 
I  want  to  go.  Oh,  do  hurry,  Arturo  —  please !  I'll  call 
Serafin,"  and  she  started  toward  the  door. 

"Elsie!" 

The  ringing  word  brought  her  back.  A  desperate 
quiet  had  come  to  him.  "You  have  been  deceived  quite 
enough.  Even  Serafin  deceived  you,  for  he  knew  very 
well  he  should  not  have  brought  you  up  here  while  there 
was  any  doubt  of  Paula's  coming.  He  knew  very  well 
that  there  is  no  way  — "  and  now  his  hands  sank  with 
force  upon  her  shoulders  as  she  stood  lifelessly  before 
him,  " —  no  way  by  which  you  could  go  back  until  to- 
morrow morning." 

"No  way?"  The  words  formed  on  her  lips  without 
sound. 

"Even  without  this  storm  —  no  possible  way,  Elsie !" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean !  —  Not  true !"  This, 
though  an  unsteady  breath,  was  a  frenzied  denial. 

"If  I  could  only  make  it  not  true!" 

The  sincerity  in  the  tone  was  unquestionable,  and 
Elsie's  eyes  became  pools  of  abject  dread.  "Then  I'm  not 
to  get  away  from  here  to-night!"  blurted  from  her  in 
such  entreaty  and  panic  he  forced  her  to  a  chair  and  knelt 
beside  her. 

Elsie  scarcely  saw  him.  The  most  uncannily  enlighten- 
ing feeling  she  had  ever  known  filled  her;  an  encompass- 


The  Next  Corner  89 

ing  suspense.  She  tried  to  struggle  through  it.  Surely 
there  was  no  need  of  it?  The  situation  in  which  she 
found  herself  —  the  result  of  Paula's  jealous  venom  and 
Serafin's  malice  for  his  humiliation  at  her  hands  —  was 
distasteful,  but  could  be  accepted  sensibly  and  lived 
through? 

Instantly  she  knew  that  the  fear  which  had  come  upon 
her  was  for  something  beyond  this ;  it  had  a  clairvoyant 
whisper  that  seemed  to  mourn  over  some  dark  and  chill- 
ing consequence  of  the  situation,  and  from  which  only 
flight  could  save  her. 

"I  am  going  —  I  am !"  she  kept  stuttering  in  answer 
to  this  urging,  her  face,  with  a  groping  bewilderment  on 
it,  turned  away.  "I  must  go  !  I  must  —  must  — " 

"Ah,  listen,  Elsie  —  and  dear,  try  to  be  sensible.  As 
soon  as  you  were  in  your  room,"  Arturo  went  on  in  a 
quieting  voice,  "I  sent  Aniceto  up  to  the  only  house  with- 
in reach,  a  place  where  they  have  a  motor.  It  was  shut 
up  ;  the  family  had  left  on  some  excursion  or  perhaps  gone 
back  to  Burgos  until  later  on.  That  was  my  only  hope. 
You  see  this  is  an  uncivilized  place,  and  this  is  a  rude, 
little  house,  Elsie.  I  come  here  for  solitude  and  have 
never  before  needed  horses. 

"The  coaches,  then,  are  all  we  have  to  depend  on. 
There  will  not  be  another  until  about  three  or  so  in  the 
morning  —  it  goes  down  at  that  time  so  that  people  can 
get  a  morning  train  comfortably,  after  breakfasting  in 
one  of  the  valley  towns.  Until  then  nothing  comes  this 
way  except  Eduardo,  a  man  on  a  donkey,  who  carries 
letters  to  a  wayside  post  box  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains. 
He  is  made  use  of  this  way  as  a  messenger  because  he  has 
work  on  the  railroad  that  takes  him  down  late  at  night  — 
but  he  is  useless  in  our  present  difficulty.  I  am  making 
all  this  clear  to  you,  my  darling,  because  I  want  you  to 
make  the  best  of  what  cannot  be  helped.  You  must  not 
be  afraid.  You  will  stay  here  and  trust  me,  Elsie.  For 
you  can  —  trust  me !" 

And  then  Elsie  saw  that  what  threatened  her  would 


90  The  Next  Corner 

have  its  beginning  in  herself.  As  he  spoke,  Arturo's 
hands  had  crept  from  her  shoulders  to  her  throat,  a  fur- 
tive, hypnotic  persuasion  in  their  fondling  touch.  The 
familiar,  imperious  fire  in  him  she  could  have  steeled  her- 
self against.  The  something  unselfish  in  his  concern  for 
her,  in  his  anger  at  the  tricks  played  upon  her,  a  certain 
elevation  in  his  bearing,  a  touch  of  sorrow,  were  new  ap- 
peals that  made  her  feel  she  was  tenderly  loved. 

And  assuredly  at  that  moment  only  fair  things  were  in 
Arturo's  heart,  —  "the  dignity  and  loyalty  and  the  love 
of  God"  of  his  race  in  the  ascendant.  He  believed  what 
he  said.  And  Elsie  believed  it,  too,  but  saw  what  lay 
dangerously  close  to  it  —  his  hunger  for  her  crying  out 
in  his  touch  and  her  ungovernable  response  to  it  — 
rejected  by  her  mind,  luring  her  senses  with  the  dark  pull 
of  a  drug.  Her  enemy  was  within. 

She  broke  from  him  heavily  and  on  feet  that  seemed 
weighted  reached  the  stairs,  fright  in  her  crowding  words. 

"You  know  I  can't  stay  here  —  you  know  that  as  well 
as  I  do.  And  I  don't  want  to,  I  don't  want  to !  I  must 
get  to  Bilbao  —  or  some  place  —  there  must  be  some  way 
I  can  get  down  the  mountain  —  I'll  go,  if  I  have  to  walk !" 

After  she  had  gone  Arturo  remained  in  a  graven  sort 
of  stillness.  Such  an  intent  and  searching  look  shot  into 
his  eyes,  as  he  stood  gazing  up  at  the  spot  where  Elsie 
had  vanished,  it  seemed  as  if  some  other  had  slipped  into 
the  darkness,  was  challenging  him,  calling  down  to  him 
through  it.  The  whole  effect  of  his  face  changed.  It 
grew  grim,  driven,  concentrated  in  a  demand.  The  wilful 
lines  so  faint  about  the  mouth  showed  like  dug-in  wires, 
flattening  it.  An  avid  gleam  came  to  his  eyes. 

This  absorption  lasted  a  few  moments.  As  a  hard 
shudder  went  over  him  he  seemed  to  surrender  to  some 
force  that  drew  him  on  slowly  to  the  stairs.  After  a 
pause  there  he  went  up  them,  his  step  determined. 

In  the  passage,  a  few  yards  beyond  Elsie's  door,  a 
candle  burned  in  a  hanging  lantern  whose  glass  was  tinted 
the  Spanish  yellow  and  crimson  arranged  in  mosaics. 


The  Next  Corner  91 

Under  this  he  waited  restfully  until  Elsie  came  out  of 
her  room.  She  had  on  her  military  cloak,  her  smallest 
bag  in  her  hand. 

At  sight  of  him  in  that  attitude,  his  breathless,  tor- 
mented, resolute  look  fixed  upon  her  —  a  look  without  the 
slightest  kinship  to  the  lovely  kindness  of  his  eyes  when 
she  had  left  him  —  she  could  not  speak  at  first.  He  gave 
her  no  help.  Through  his  silence  the  thought  came  to  her 
that  he  felt  no  need  of  further  persuasion;  silence  and 
waiting  were  his  allies,  and  enough. 

She  began  a  rush  of  fluttering  words :  "I'll  go  on.  — 
Send  all  my  things  to  Paris !  I'll  go  back  to  the  Ritz !  — 
You'll  come  with  me,  Arturo,  and  show  me  the  way? 
You'll  help  me  get  down,  won't  you?  —  won't  you?" 

He  took  her  arm  in  a  gentle  yet  directing  grip  and  led 
her  to  the  end  of  the  passage  where  one  of  the  fastened 
window  shutters  showed. 

"I  want  you  to  listen  to  the  storm,"  he  said  with  moni- 
tory quiet.  "Listen  to  it." 

She  stood  in  silence  beside  him.  He  felt  her  tremble, 
saw  her  eyes  shrink  as  if  from  a  sun  too  strong.  The 
whole  world  seemed  at  war  outside,  women  wailing,  and 
hoofs  ringing,  and  soldiers  attacking,  and  fiends  whistling 
in  some  abominable  triumph. 

"But  if  you  helped  me,  if  you  came  down  with  me  — 
couldn't  we  manage  —  somehow?"  She  urged  the  words 
out  with  a  lifeless  sort  of  obstinacy. 

His  answer  was  to  force  up  the  heavy  bar  on  the  shutter 
and  recklessly  hold  it  open.  The  wind,  with  the  quality 
of  sheet  iron,  tore  in  through  the  glassless  space  and 
struck  them  back,  the  rain  went  over  their  heads  like  the 
wash  of  a  big  wave;  and  this  during  a  second.  As  Ar- 
turo fought  the  gale  and  fastened  the  shutter  again, 
Elsie  sank  against  the  wall.  She  stood  there,  gasping, 
wiping  her  face,  the  bag  fallen  to  her  feet.  Arturo,  too, 
had  pulled  a  big  handkerchief  from  his  sleeve,  used  it  as 
if  it  were  a  bath  towel  and  shook  the  water  from  his 
hair,  while  breaking  into  laughter  with  cries  in  Spanish. 


92  The  Next  Corner 

Mad  laughter  it  was.  Elsie  had  never  heard  anything 
even  faintly  like  it  from  him  before,  for  in  his  pleasure 
he  had  never  been  gay,  never  frivolous  like  their  com- 
panions. It  seemed  that  the  prancing  in  of  the  wild 
night,  striking  him,  had  acted  as  a  challenge,  called  to 
him  to  be  like  it,  conquering  all,  afraid  of  nothing.  In 
the  mixed  glow  from  the  lantern  he  seemed  a  storm-mad 
faun,  drunk  with  the  urge  of  his  own  dancing  blood. 

Still  laughing,  deadly  pale,  and  with  overbright  eyes 
he  came  straight  to  her  and  curved  his  hands  about  her 
face.  As  he  looked  down  at  her  he  grew  serious. 

"My  darling,"  he  said  with  slow  determination,  a  glow- 
ing clearness. 

She  tore  at  his  fingers.  They  seemed  molded  to  her 
head. 

"Don't,"  came  on  a  shudder,  a  breath,  for  with  his 
touch  and  the  blows  of  his  heart  against  her  own  the  peril 
within  herself  had  taken  on  a  stifling  sweetness.  "Oh, 
please  —  remember!  Oh,  what  am  I  to  do?" 

This  stammering  fear  he  answered  by  crushing  her  to 
him,  his  arms  trembling  in  yearning,  hard  in  decision. 
"You  are  to  remain  with  me  here,  cara  —  mi  cielo  —  my 
adored  and  treasured  love!" 

"No !" 

"No?"  He  cried  this  out  with  a  return  of  the  mad 
laughter  and  kissed  her  cheek.  "No?"  he  asked  mockingly 
as  he  pulled  the  pin  from  her  hat  and  flung  both  aside.  In 
a  relentless  way  he  pressed  her  face  down  and  his  lips 
swept  over  her  hair,  her  ear,  her  throat.  "No?"  he 
asked  again,  this  time  very  gravely,  with  a  note  of  pain. 
His  beautiful  mouth,  thirsting,  hung  just  above  hers. 
"Do  you  say  that  to  me,  Elsie?  If  you  do,  I  will  let  you 
go."  He  waited  still,  his  breath  broken.  "Can  you  say 
it?  Ah,  can  you,  Elsie?  .  .  .  Can  you?  ..." 

She  could  not.  Under  the  stealing,  agonizing,  enfeeb- 
ling delight  of  that  delayed  kiss,  the  will  to  resist  —  a 
struggling  light  —  went  out,  and  darkness  like  a  flood 
rushed  in.  Elsie  seemed  drowning  in  it  when  Arturo's 


The  Next  Corner  93 

lips  at  last  burned  down  on  hers  and  kept  them  through 
wild  words  that  were  almost  without  sound: 

"I'm  not  going  to  lose  you  —  going  to  keep  you !  I 
didn't  seek  this !  It's  come  and  I'll  seize  it.  It  is  our 
destiny  !  —  Oh,  I  love  you  —  how  I  love  you !  I  love  you 
too  much !  Above  all  in  life,  in  all  the  world  I  adore  you ! 
I've  been  sick  for  you,  torn  for  you.  You  shall  not  go ! 
It's  no  use  —  how  can  I  be  different  from  what  I  am?" 

For  a  time  he  held  her  with  overmastering  greed,  the 
red  and  yellow  stains  from  the  lantern  dancing  on  their 
pale  faces,  the  storm  knocking  and  chuckling  and 
whistling  around  them.  Elsie  grew  weak  in  his  arms. 
There  was  triumph  in  being  so  conquered.  This  was  life ! 
This  was  all !  Without  it  there  was  nothing ! 

The  intoxication  lasted  only  a  moment.  The  unescap- 
able  despondency  that  flavors  all  collapse  came  to  her  as 
from  some  warning  wail  rising  above  the  clamor  in  her- 
self. She  drew  away  from  Arturo,  with  eyes  growing  sick 
in  her  awakening. 

"Why  have  you  done  this?"  her  whisper  came.  Her 
hands  grasped  her  surging  head.  There  was  a  dreadful 
note  in  the  question  that  followed :  "Where  are  you  taking 
me?" 


CHAPTER  X 

AND  that  dreadful  note  of  utter  helplessness  in  the 
voice  he  loved  came  at  Arturo  with  such  reproach  it 
steadied  him.  With  a  struggle  he  opposed  the  feeling  that 
held  him  as  with  a  beast's  claws.  Ghastly  now  and  trem- 
bling, he  yet  touched  Elsie  very  gently. 

"Dearest,  don't  look  at  me  so  —  ah,  don't  look  at  me 
like  that !" 

In  an  assuring  way  he  drew  her  to  a  rough  bench  that 
ran  beside  the  wall,  and  for  a  moment  they  sat  side  by 
side  in  silence.  Arturo  only  held  her  cold  hand,  lifting  it 
once  to  his  face  with  a  scrupulous  tenderness ;  and  once 
he  touched  his  lips  with  their  held-back,  excited  breath 
to  her  wet  sleeve.  His  beauty  had  taken  on  new  power,  — 
the  splendor  of  line  and  light  of  a  questing  tiger.  His 
eyes  showed  the  fever  that  tormented  him  kept  brooding 
under  heavy  and  languid  pulses  while  he  comforted  her. 

"You  are  not  afraid  of  me  now,  darling?  You  don't 
think  I  would  ever  be  unkind  to  you?" 

The  dire  appeal  had  gone  out  of  Elsie's  face,  leaving 
in  single  strength  a  passionate  adoration.  As  before,  it 
was  his  gentleness,  his  care  that  fed  her  craving  for  him. 
In  an  unexpected  way,  appealing  as  a  child's,  she  took 
her  hand  from  him  and  put  her  arms  about  his  neck.  As 
he  waited  with  a  look  of  amazed  and  humble  joy,  for  it 
was  her  first  impulsive  caress,  she  drew  his  face  down  to 
her  and  kissed  him,  —  this  also  in  the  way  of  a  trustful 
child. 

"I  do  love  you,  Arturo,"  she  said  very  earnestly.  "I 
can't  leave  you  — " 

"Preciosa!    My  very  heart!" 

"All  the  fight  has  gone  out  of  me.  But  it's  the  after- 
ward —  all  that  will  come  afterward  —  that  frightens 

94 


The  Next  Corner  95 

me.  Oh,  make  me  see.  Show  me  where  I  am  going !"  She 
laid  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  hiding  it,  and  as  his  lips 
touched  her  neck  a  rapture  went  through  her  that 
ended  in  a  shudder.  "I'm  a  coward,"  broke  from  her,  still 
with  her  face  down.  "To  be  wicked,  one  ought  to  be  fear- 
less." 

"Is  this  being  wicked?"  he  asked  into  her  ear  that 
through  the  loose  hairs  veiling  it  was  like  an  opening 
blossom.  "Wouldn't  it  be  more  wicked  to  leave  me  when 
you  love  me  and  go  away  to  live  with  a  man  you  do  not 
love?"  She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  de- 
fenseless eyes  that  showed  her  groping  for  truth.  "You 
did  not  think  of  that,  ever?"  he  asked  with  dreamy  re- 
proach. 

A  light  came  out  of  the  trouble  in  Elsie's  face.  Her 
arms  tightened  about  him.  "Then  you  do  see,  Arturo, 
the  one  thing  that's  plain  to  me  —  if  I  stay  here  with  you 
I  can  never  go  back  to  Robert?"  She  stood  up,  her 
hands  against  her  wan  cheeks,  dragging  at  them.  "Never, 
never,  never  will  I  go  back.  I'd  even  pray  never  to  come 
face  to  face  with  him  again,"  she  whispered,  and  after  a 
pause  as  she  bent  down,  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders, 
added  with  almost  a  sad  desperation:  "My  old  life  I'll 
throw  away  forever.  Whatever  happens  to  me,  going 
with  you  —  whatever  I  become  —  there  will  be  no  one  but 
you !" 

The  words  checked  Arturo.  They,  and  the  feel  of  her 
holding  fingers  again  swept  a  memory  of  Paula's  words 
to  him:  "Will  you  take  my  advice  and  let  her  alone?  Or, 
will  you  risk  having  her  on  your  hands  for  life?"  This 
was  what  she  had  meant.  Gazing  up  at  Elsie  he  saw  also 
unaccustomed  heights  that  would  demand  unselfishness, 
and  to  which,  holding  her,  he  might  be  drawn.  Justice 
and  pity  strove  within  him,  urging  truth. 

Only  briefly.  After  the  fashion  of  his  race,  intensified 
by  his  manner  of  life,  he  delayed  meeting  the  issue;  later 
he  would  see  more  clearly.  Just  now  it  was  enough  that 
Elsie  was  like  a  wonderful  flower  that  the  storm  had 


96  The  Next  Corner 

broken  and  blown  to  him.  Her  falling  hair  a  glittering 
mist  over  brow  and  cheeks;  her  eyes  luminous  in  the  sad 
gaze  of  one  demanding  its  secret  of  Fate;  the  spiritual- 
ized pallor  of  her  skin,  her  charming  hands,  so  like  a 
child's,  framing  her  face;  the  waiting  breath  upon  her 
parted  lips  —  all  the  gold  and  white  of  her  —  these  made 
him  know  a  worship  to  the  limits  of  his  nature,  acted  as 
a  spur  upon  his  refined  and  corrupted  mind.  He  knew, 
too,  of  the  ardors  within  her  fragility,  hidden  there  until 
he  had  made  her  love  him;  that  he  had  found  there  like 
fire  under  snow.  And  there  would  be  still  deeper  ecstasies 
—  oh,  wonders !  —  that  he  would  arouse  as  the  practised 
musician  calls  multiform  rhapsodies  from  wood  and 
strings.  Self-discipline?  Renunciation?  No!  He  had 
never  quite  risen  to  the  call  of  what  was  good  in  him,  and 
he  could  not  now,  could  not  escape  from  the  goad  of  his 
passion  for  her.  The  last  wavering  reflection  vanished, 
and  he  was  only  aware  of  the  drumming  blood  in  his 
brain,  a  conquering  languor. 

"Let  us  finish  this  and  not  speak  of  it  any  more,"  he 
said,  and  made  her  sit  down  again.  He  knelt  before  her, 
his  arms  loosely  about  her  waist.  "When  I  say  that  I 
want  nothing  but  your  happiness,  can  you  doubt  me?"  he 
asked  and  drew  back  a  little  so  that  she  could  look  fully 
into  the  shadows  and  glow  of  his  eyes.  "Now  tell  me  what 
troubles  you?" 

She  grew  calm  at  his  words.  "There's  my  husband. 
I  can't  forget  him.  I  can't  play  with  him,  Arturo,  or 
cheat  him.  I  know  that  lots  of  women  can.  In  Paris  we 
both  knew  women  who  did.  I  cannot.  I  can't  be  untrue 
to  my  husband  and  ever  see  him  again." 

"Well,  then  —  let  me  ask  you  —  will  you  grieve  for  not 
seeing  him  again?" 

"Not  if  you  love  me  — "  and  now  her  face  showed  the 
bite  of  conscience  through  the  glamour  he  had  brought 
there,  "not  if  you  really  love  me.  That  could  make  it 
seem  —  to  me  —  right." 

"I  shall  always  love  you,"  he  said  simply.     "Do  you 


The  Next  Corner  97 

think  any  woman  has  ever  been  to  me  what  you  have  been? 
Have  I  endured  a  hell  of  failure  for  a  year  for  any  other 
and  still  hung  about  her,  suffering,  as  I  have  for  you? 
I  never  have.  I  shall  love  you  as  long  as  I  live!  Does 
this  satisfy  you?" 

She  gave  him  a  searching  gaze.  "Yes,"  she  sighed,  and 
yet  content  was  missing. 

"I  can't  say  that  we  can  ever  arrange  our  lives  —  con- 
ventionally—  you  understand?  There's  my  family  —  my 
mother  —  I  am  dependent  on  her.  Also,  she  is  old  and 
loves  me  very  much,  as  I  do  her.  Then,  as  I've  often  told 
you,  she  has  certain  beliefs  and  feelings  that  are  as  her 
life  blood  and  which  I  dare  not,  would  not  wish  ever  to 
offend.  But  my  sweet  one,  so  precious  to  me,  there  is 
the  whole  world  with  many  beautiful  quiet  places  or  gay 
bright  cities  where  we  could  live  together  and  snap  our 
fingers  at  formal  society  and  its  rules.  Would  this  be 
enough  for  you?" 

He  moved  to  one  side,  completely  releasing  her,  and 
leaning  his  arm  on  the  bench  looked  up  at  her  in  a  patient, 
numbed  way.  "You  see,  I  will  not  try  to  persuade  you 
with  my  emotion  —  ah,  dearest,  which  is  so  terrible !  — 
I  will  let  you  decide  for  yourself.  Would  what  I  offer  be 
enough  for  you?" 

"Oh,  yes;  oh,  yes,"  she  said  and  shuddered  as  if  joy 
frightened  her.  As  he  had  fully  expected,  it  was  she,  re- 
warding his  self-control,  who  sought  him.  Her  hand 
smoothed  his  cheek.  After  kissing  the  hollowed,  rosy 
palm  he  tucked  it  against  his  throat.  "I  understand  that 
you  can't  promise  more,  Arturo.  It  would  be  a  happiness 
that  seems  too  great  —  if  —  if  only  — " 

"If!    Well,  dear?    What?" 

"If  only  Robert  —  knew !" 

"He  will  know,  in  time." 

"If  he  knew  —  now !"  she  said  wistfully,  desperately. 

A  boyish  laugh  broke  from  Arturo.  "Madre  mia,  I'm 
glad  he  cannot  —  that  we  have  not  yet  miracles !  You 
are  a  foolish  child,  Elsie,  if  ever  there  was  one,"  and  he 


98  The  Next  Corner 

gave  her  a  sudden,  kindly  caress.  "You  seem  sometimes 
not  more  than  ten  years  of  age.  Nothing  could  make 
your  husband  know  —  now.  Not  unless  you  have  mas- 
tered telepathy.  Have  you?"  He  smiled  up  at  her.  "Or 
what  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  exactly.  But  if  he  knew  —  if  I  could 
have  told  him  before  I  left  him,  then  I'd  feel  different  — 
true.  Then  there  would  not  be  one  regret.  I  feel  guilty 

—  until  I  tell  him." 

The  poetry  went  out  of  Arturo's  face.  A  look  of  blind 
rage  swept  over  it.  "I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  We 
are  to  remain  here  as  two  strangers,  I  suppose,  until  we 
are  sure  that  Mr.  Robert  Maury  has  had  time  to  receive 
your  letter  in  which  you  tell  him  that  you  are  leaving  him 
for  me.  Can  you  expect  me  to  consent  to  that?"  He 
sprang  up  and  looked  down  at  her  with  grave,  cold  eyes. 
"You  are  playing  with  me.  It  amuses  you  to  torment  my 
soul." 

As  she  stared  back  at  him  she  had  the  harassed  look 
of  one  trying  to  hold  to  a  tune  through  a  clash  of  bells. 
"No,"  she  murmured,  "no.  But  at  least,  as  you've  said 

—  I  can  write!"     Her  face  clearing,  she  came  quickly  to 
him  as  he  still  stood  with  rigid  arms  and  somber  gaze. 
"That  would  do,  Arturo  !  —  yes,  I'd  be  satisfied  if  I  wrote 
to  Robert,  if  I  knew  that  from  the  moment  I  made  my 
decision,  from  the  very  beginning,  my  letter  telling  him 
the  truth  was  on  its  way."    She  laid  her  head  with  plead- 
ing on  his  shoulder.     "Don't  be  angry!    I  suppose  I  am 
foolish  —  do  I  seem  foolish?" 

"Very,"  he  said,  and  not  able  to  resist  the  appeal  of 
her  closeness  let  his  arms  fasten  about  her.  "I  can't  un- 
derstand your  thinking  of  this  man  at  all  since  you  love 
me  as  you  do.  There  isn't  a  woman  living  of  whom  I 
could  think  in  such  a  moment!" 

"But  you  did,"  Elsie  urged  gently,  looking  up.  "You 
thought  of  your  mother." 

Just  the  mention  of  his  mother  in  that  casual  way  by 
a  stranger  and  the  something  in  him  that  often  had 


The  Next  Corner  99 

baffled  Elsie  was  plain  for  a  moment  in  a  look  that  was 
a  spirit-quelling  thing.  It  intrenched  him  at  once  behind 
a  rampart  of  pride,  made  her  conscious  of  all  the  proud 
quarterings  over  his  doors. 

"That  was  different."  This  was  conclusive  as  his  hold 
upon  her  loosened.  After  a  pause  he  added  with  formal- 
ity :  "I  had  to  explain  —  some  things.  You  had  not  the 
same  reason.  It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  guard  your 
action  so  that  you  may  take  support  from  your  husband. 
There's  not  that  need  of  consideration  of  him.  But  per- 
haps I  am  wrong?"  he  asked  with  a  slowness  that  was 
cruel.  "It  may  be  your- intention  to  continue  to  take  an 
income  from  him?  Such  a  thing  to  me  would  be  un- 
natural, detestable  —  but  I  am  unused  to  American 
ways." 

Elsie  had  retreated,  staring  at  him,  her  look  appalled. 
"How  could  you  say  that?  It  was  horrible  to  say  that 
to  me.  Oh,  it  was  a  brutal,  hateful  thing,"  she  almost 
sobbed. 

"It  was !"  Arturo  cried  and  flung  his  head  back  vio- 
lently in  self-contempt.  He  came  to  her,  penitent,  shaken 
with  tenderness.  "Forgive  me,  my  dearest.  I  have  a  bad 
temper!  I  am  a  Spaniard,  you  know,  so  sometimes  I  get 
into  a  dreadful  rage.  It  doesn't  last,"  he  smiled,  "and 
it's  because  I  am  so  terribly  in  love  with  you  that  I  feel 
sheer  insanity  when  you  speak  of  any  man  but  me !"  He 
led  her  to  the  door  of  the  bedroom  and  took  her  face  in 
his  hands.  "Am  I  forgiven?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"Then  write  your  letter,  if  you  wish.  Bring  it  down 
when  you  come  to  dinner  —  and  hurry,  for  it  is  past  ten. 
Eduardo  shall  have  it  when  he  goes  down  the  mountain 
in  about  an  hour.  I'll  tell  Serafin  to  have  the  lantern 
hung  out  that  is  the  signal  for  him  to  stop  — " 

"Serafin!"  rang  in  her  thoughts,  but  she  did  not  utter 
it.  Having  kept  secret  the  experience  with  the  Basque 
that  had  made  her  dislike  him,  she  shrank  from  telling  it 
now. 


100  The  Next  Corner 

"Wear  your  prettiest  gown,"  Arturo  whispered. 
"Have  you  what  I  love  —  something  gold?" 

"No.     Only  one  white  and  one  black." 

"Wear  the  white."  He  bent  her  head  back.  "Bride's 
color,"  he  whispered,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  nothing 
upon  the  earth  but  his  arms,  his  loved  breath  and  lips, 
and  the  eyes  that  she  saw  close  as  if  by  the  weight  of  his 
delight. 

"Go."  His  voice  was  smothered,  his  smile  much  like  a 
distracted  boy's.  "Go  quickly  —  and  come  back  to  me 
quickly.  I  want  every  moment !" 

Arturo  returned  to  the  living  room.  Except  that  he 
went  rapidly,  there  was  little  sign  in  his  face  of  his  wild 
joy.  A  manner  that  could  be  a  mask  when  with  inferiors 
was  usual,  easy  to  assume.  He  lighted  a  cigarette  before 
giving  the  loud  clap  of  the  hands  that  summoned  servants. 

Aniceto  glided  in  at  one  door,  Serafin  came  gravely 
from  another.  After  brief  instructions  to  the  boy  about 
serving  the  long-delayed  dinner  and  which  he  fled  at  once 
to  carry  out,  Arturo  looked  peacefully  at  the  Basque. 
His  earlier  displeasure  was  still  felt  between  them  and 
showed  in  an  excessive  impassiveness  on  Serafin's  side  as 
he  waited,  a  conciseness  on  Arturo's  when  he  spoke. 

In  the  most  natural  way  he  stated  that  Mrs.  Maury 
was  going  to  remain  with  him  indefinitely.  She  was  send- 
ing an  important  letter  to  her  husband,  by  Eduardo,  and 
Serafin  would  see  that  the  lantern  was  immediately  hung 
out.  Aniceto  and  the  cook  were  all  that  would  be  required 
by  him  at  El  Miradero  for  the  present.  Serafin  would 
therefore  leave.  He  must  take  the  morning  coach,  and 
in  Bilbao  rent  a  touring  car  for  Arturo  for  a  month. 
He  would  return  with  it  and  a  chauffeur.  Going  on  in 
it  past  El  Miradero  to  the  Senora  Marquesas  country 
house,  he  would  assure  her  of  Arturo's  well-being,  and 
without  going  into  details,  make  her  understand  that 
neither  she  nor  his  sister  must  visit  him ;  that  instead,  Ar- 
turo would  motor  over  within  the  week  to  spend  the  day 
with  them.  This  done,  Serafin  was  to  send  the  car  back 


The  Next  Corner  101 

to  El  Miradero  while  continuing  where  he  pleased  on  a 
vacation,  —  to  Burgos  or  if  he  wished  still  farther,  to 
pay  his  family  a  visit.  When  Arturo  needed  him  he 
would  be  recalled.  For  to-night  he  was  to  wait  at  table 
—  and  —  well,  that  was  all. 

Serafin  received  these  directions  without  the  slightest 
change  of  expression.  He  bowed  deeply,  saying  he  would 
put  out  the  lantern  at  once  and  would  be  ready,  as  the 
Senor  Marques  wished,  to  depart  by  the  coach.  He  also 
begged  to  say  that  he  regretted  keenly  having  displeased 
the  Senor  Marques,  yet  assured  him  that  in  urging  his 
guest  to  come  on  alone  to  El  Miradero  he  had  been  think- 
ing of  his  master's  contentment  only,  —  only  hoping  to 
bring  about,  for  his  sake,  exactly  what  had  transpired. 
And  the  Senor  Marques  could  count  on  him  as  on  his 
own  right  hand,  until  his  last  breath. 

After  listening,  while  musingly  smoking,  to  these  as- 
surances of  fidelity,  Arturo  thanked  him  sincerely  though 
in  the  briefest  way.  Serafin  bowed  profoundly  several 
times  and  went  about  his  duties. 

There  had  not  been  a  trace  of  Aniceto's  servility  or 
haste  on  Serafin's  part  in  this  little  scene,  nevertheless 
his  loyalty  and  veneration  were  clear  to  Arturo.  He  un- 
derstood the  erectness  and  dignity  of  his  Basque  foster 
brother ;  it  did  not  in  the  slightest  way  alter  the  fact  that 
if  Serafin  could  at  that  moment  have  chosen  his  station  in 
life,  he  would  have  been,  like  Arturo,  an  hidalgo  of  Spain 
rather  than  king  of  any  other  land. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  letter  to  Robert  was  the  dominant  thought  to 
Elsie  through  the  sweet  and  stinging  tumult  of  her  mind. 
Only  when  it  was  on  its  way  would  a  dogging  sense  of 
treachery  to  him  leave  her.  Sending  it,  she  would  be  as 
honest  as  time  and  distance  made  possible.  Sending  it, 
she  would  burn  all  her  boats,  their  flames  the  signs  that 
the  river  that  flowed  between  what  she  had  been  and  would 
be  in  the  future,  could  never  be  crossed  —  unless  —  un- 
less the  man  she  loved  would,  sometime,  marry  her.  And 
even  then?  .  .  .  Ah,  even  then,  would  there  not  always 
be  her  public  defiance  of  law,  —  a  shadow  that  would 
never  down  while  eyes  could  look  at  her  with  memory  of  it? 

At  this  thought,  as  she  sat  bent  over  the  desk  and  tried 
to  write,  words  from  her  mother's  letter  recurred  to  her, 
and  for  a  few  seconds  the  shallow,  pretty  face  seemed  be- 
side her,  but  twisted  in  rage  as  the  lips  echoed  their 
written  warning :  "You  fool  — !" 

Elsie  gave  the  whisper  of  a  desperate  laugh.  Well,  an 
honest  fool.  There  was  pride  in  knowing  that.  And 
with  the  feeling  judgment  of  her  mother  grew  hard. 

As  they  come  to  the  drowning,  so  in  this  moment  of 
critical  venturing  a  murked  procession  of  pictures  of  her 
childhood  rose  before  Elsie.  She  saw  herself  tolerated  or 
pushed  aside  by  Nina  Race,  the  singer ;  frostbitten  in  her 
childish  soul  with  her  glacial  aunt;  never  with  a  home; 
never  loved ;  at  last  hurried  into  marriage  when  so  young 
with  the  first  man  that  wanted  her  because  it  meant  her 
mother's  escape  from  her  as  an  incubus,  —  and  an  in- 
cubus that  stood  for  a  calendar  showing  what  Nina's  ap- 
proximate age  must  be.  No  love  anywhere.  Ah,  that 
was  it!  Had  she  had  the  love  on  which  most  children 

102 


The  Next  Corner  103 

ripen  sweetly  and  which  with  her  had  always  been  an 
absolute  need  of  the  ingrained  and  suppressed  ardor  of 
her  nature,  it  was  not  likely  that  the  feeling  that  filled 
her  now  —  like  the  vertigo  of  heights  —  would  have  found 
her  ready,  at  last,  to  pay  its  heavy  price. 

Her  pen  lay  motionless  on  the  paper  while  she  followed 
the  trail  of  self-defending  thought  to  Robert.  A  man  of 
splendid  qualities,  his  complete  mastery  of  himself  had 
been  a  numbing,  fretting  thing  to  her.  There  had  always 
been  a  wall  between  them.  Always  the  flame  in  herself 
had  been  left  to  burn  like  a  candle  in  a  bare  and  un- 
tenanted  room.  Although  she  had  borne  him  a  child,  it 
was  the  child  that  she  had  passionately  loved.  (Ah,  had 
her  darling  lived!  How  nearly  had  losing  it  taken  her 
sanity!)  For  its  father  her  feeling  had  been,  at  the 
strongest,  a  grateful  devotion  mixed  with  eagerness  to 
stand  level  with  him  as  a  comrade.  She  was  sure  he  cared 
deeply  for  her,  in  his  way;  a  careful,  self-watching  way, 
so  that  often  he  would  seem  to  have  retreated  into  some 
inner  house  with  doors  shut,  she  to  be  satisfied  —  know- 
ing he  was  near  —  to  sit  in  its  vestibule  or  wander  in  its 
garden.  So  as  he  had  never  spent  himself  prodigally  in 
loving  what  he  had,  neither  would  he,  she  felt  sure,  in  re- 
gret for  what  he  would  lose.  He  would  not  miss  her  much. 
At  their  recent  meeting  he  had  felt  that  she  had  become 
a  light  sort  of  woman  and  had  been  glad  to  get  away  from 
her.  When,  from  her  own  written  words,  he  would  see 
her  as  both  light  and  soiled,  he  would  forget  her  easily. 

As  to  his  possible  meaning  to  herself  once  her  letter 
was  gone?  She  tried  to  see  this  from  every  side.  He  had 
been  little  more  than  a  shadow  to  her  for  years ;  a  shadow 
that  she  had  known  would  instantly  have  taken  on  en- 
during substance  had  she  called  to  him,  or  sought  him, 
needing  him ;  a  shadow  that  had  generously  provided  for 
her  from  a  distance;  yet,  not  one  that  had  ever  winged 
to  her  over  the  space  between  them  the  knowledge  of  a 
hungry  heart  that  waited,  aching  for  the  moment  that 
would  give  her  again  to  him.  And  so  from  now  on  he 


104  The  Next  Corner 

would  become  merely  a  less  distinct  shadow  until  soon 
even  that  much  of  him  would  go  and  nothing  of  the  past 
would  waver  across  her  sunlight  at  all. 
She  wrote  the  letter : 

•      "June  —  1914  —  El  Miradero. 

"This  is  going  to  hurt  you,  Robert,  and  I  am  deeply, 
deeply  sorry  —  but  it  is  inevitable.  You  see  I  am  writing 
from  the  lodge  in  the  Cantabrians.  You  know  it  belongs 
to  the  young  Marques  de  Burgos,  but  perhaps  you  don't 
realize  that  he  is  the  Don  Arturo  I  sometimes  spoke  of 
in  my  letters.  He  has  loved  me  a  long  time.  To-night 
I  decided  to  remain  with  him  because  I  came  to  see  that 
if  I  gave  him  up  and  went  back  to  you  I  would  be  too 
unhappy  to  live. 

"Please  don't  think  me  deceitful!  Please  believe  that 
when  you  left  me  in  Paris  I  did  not  dream  that  I'd  ever 
come  to  such  a  decision !  I  meant  after  a  visit  here  to 
go  on  to  New  York  as  we  arranged,  never  see  Arturo 
again,  never  hear  from  him.  I  meant  to  set  myself  to 
forget  him.  This  is  the  truth. 

"I  couldn't  keep  to  it.  When  I  found  myself  alone  with 
him,  up  in  these  mountains,  separated  from  the  whole 
world,  the  world  and  its  laws  lost  their  strength.  I  got 
to  know  myself.  I  could  not  keep  faith  with  you. 

"There's  no  use  trying  to  explain  —  I  feel  something 
for  Arturo  unlike  anything  I  ever  felt  before,  a  happiness 
almost  too  great  to  believe. 

"He  has  very  little  money.  We'll  have  to  wander  about 
Europe  in  the  simplest  way.  I  gladly  give  up  home, 
friends,  the  good  opinion  of  the  world  for  him.  I  would 
endure  any  hardships  for  his  sake.  I  am  in  love  —  madly 
in  love! 

"You  see  I  am  hiding  nothing.  I  do  this  deliberately  so 
that  you  will  realize  how  clearly  I  understand  what  to- 
night I  have  chosen,  and  that  the  truth  written  here  will 
be  enough  to  gain  you  a  divorce.  Free  yourself  from  me 
at  once,  and  I  pray  —  from  my  heart  —  that  later  you 


The  Next  Corner  105 

will  love  a  woman  who  will  make  up  to  you  for  the  pain 
I  am  causing  you  now. 

"I'm  not  writing  to  my  mother.  Please  see  her  and  show 
her  this  letter?  She  was  afraid  that  I'd  take  this  step. 
She'll  say  that  I'm  a  fool  —  that  I'll  pay  for  it  in  bitter 
disappointment.  Perhaps  I  will  —  but  I  have  made  my 
choice. 

"Good-by,  Robert.  You  have  loved  me,  I  know.  I  am 
so  sorry  to  grieve  and  disappoint  you.  In  all  likelihood 
we'll  not  meet  again,  and  I  hope  we  don't.  I  care  for 
you  too  much  in  a  kind  way  to  wish  ever  to  see  you  after 
you  read  this.  Good-bv  again. 

"ELSIE." 

As  she  dressed  she  could  hear  the  lingering  sounds  of 
the  storm.  Though  the  rain  seemed  to  have  ceased,  the 
wind  still  shook  the  house. 

She  put  on  the  white  Rue  de  la  Paix  gown.  It  was 
of  a  shimmering  tissue;  her  shoulders  and  arms  rose  out 
of  it  as  from  a  tulip  made  of  crystallized  vapor;  it  clung 
suavely  about  her  to  below  the  knees ;  from  there  broke 
into  a  froth  about  her  pointed,  flashing  slippers.  Two 
spots  of  dark  red,  like  burns,  showed  high  up  on  her 
blanched  cheeks.  From  her  day-long  anxiety  and  the 
clash  of  emotions  there  was  luster  in  her  restless  gaze, 
not  unlike  the  bright  look  of  wasting  that  one  has  who 
is  spent  from  illness.  And  it  was  so  —  thin,  misty,  hushed 
and  starry-eyed  —  that  Arturo  saw  her  come  down  the 
stairs  and  make  her  tremulous  advance  to  him  where  he 
stood  before  the  fire. 

She  had  passed  Serafin  in  the  hall  above.  He  had  been 
opening  one  of  the  shutters  and  had  not  even  glanced  at 
her.  Still,  while  going  by  him  she  had  been  aware  of  a 
covert  simper  that  had  seemed  to  exude  from  the  pulled- 
up  corner  of  his  eye  and  his  twisted  mouth.  She  had  felt 
it  like  a  smearing  gibe  that  lingered  upon  her  as  his  hand 
had  done  once  upon  hers ;  and  she  felt  a  disgust  for  him 
now  as  she  had  then.  Her  first  words  to  Arturo,  as  he 


106  The  Next  Corner 

drew  her  to  him  with  a  quiet  sort  of  rapture,  expressed 
this,  though  guardedly: 

"I  wish  Serafin  weren't  here,  Arturo.  I  would  rather 
he  didn't  know  — " 

Arturo  held  her  away  gaily,  his  eyes  droll  and  aston- 
ished. "Santo  Dios  —  but  he  is  a  servant !"  He  broke 
into  some  musical,  exclamatory  Spanish  and  added  with 
a  wondering  shrug  of  his  supple  shoulders :  "He  does  not 
exist !" 

"I  don't  like  him.     Something  about  him  — " 

"Well,  don't  think  of  him.  As  it  happens,  I  have  al- 
ready arranged  everything  as  you  would  like  it.  He  is 
going." 

"But  you  have  not  told  him  — ?" 

"As  far  as  he  knows,  you  are  merely  remaining  until 
I  can  get  you  comfortably  away  by  motor.  He  leaves 
here  by  the  early  coach,  brings  back  the  car,  then  goes 
on  to  see  my  mother  for  me  and  to  attend  to  some  business 
in  Burgos.  He  will  know  nothing  about  us  until  later, 
probably  when  we've  gone  from  here  and  at  a  time  when 
we  shall  hide  nothing  from  the  world.  Does  that  content 
you,  Elsie?" 

"Yes,  I'm  glad.     You  were  thoughtful,  Arturo." 

"I  love  you,"  he  said  in  a  soft,  even,  lingering  tone  that 
somehow  was  the  most  final  declaration. 

He  had  spoken  this  mangled  half-truth  with  every  ac- 
cent of  sincerity  because  he  was  without  consciousness  of 
duplicity.  Some  men  everywhere,  and  most  Latins,  are 
graceful  liars  to  women.  Lies  can  even  have  beauty  when 
they  are  salve  upon  the  needless  angers,  fears  and  doubts 
of  those  unreasonable  beings  who  always  expect  too  much 
of  human  nature,  who  yet  are  delicious,  and  without  whom 
life  is  both  inconceivable  and  impossible. 

"Have  you  written  your  foolish  letter?" 

She  drew  it  from  her  girdle,  a  gray-blue  square.  "You 
think  it  so  foolish?  Why?" 

"I  suppose  because  I  have  an  inborn  dislike  to  setting 
down  the  irremediable  in  black  and  white,  to  seeing  any 


The  Next  Corner  107 

step  taken  impulsively  that  afterthought  cannot  affect." 
With  a  dubious  smile  he  spread  out  his  hands  helplessly. 

"This  feeling  comes,  no  doubt,  from  the  eternal  'to- 
morrow I  will  do  it  — '  the  manana  that  is  the  curse  of 
Spain." 

"And  with  me,"  she  said,  fingering  the  letter  delicately, 
"this  represents  conscience.  Don't  you  see?  —  it  is  as 
a  bit  of  my  conscience,  Arturo,  that  I  send  it.  Here  — 
I  left  it  open  for  you  to  read."  She  pressed  it  into  his 
hands  and  sat  down,  looking  up  at  him,  while  her  pulses 
kept  knocking  at  her  ears  through  her  white  stillness. 

As  Arturo  balanced  the  letter  his  face  quivered  slightly 
with  a  look  of  ironic  distaste.  "I  would  not  care  to  read 
it,  Elsie.  Tell  me  simply  what  it  expresses.  You  have 
said  clearly  that  you  are  here  with  me  and  mean  to  remain 
with  me?" 

"Yes." 

"You  have  assumed,  too,  that  he  will  get  a  divorce?" 

"I  have  told  him  to." 

"Then  you  have  said  everything.  I'll  seal  it  for  you 
with  this  ring,"  and  he  held  up  his  hand  on  which  there 
was  the  dull  gold  crest  of  his  family,  long  familiar  to  her. 

With  poised  breath  she  watched  him  go  to  the  desk. 
As  she  heard  him  strike  the  match  to  melt  the  wax  a  feel- 
ing of  sudden,  disorganizing  sympathy  for  Robert  made 
her  weak.  She  bent  her  face,  and  a  wave  of  miserable 
prayer  for  him  —  and  for  herself  —  swept  up  from  her 
heart. 

"Here  it  is."  Arturo  was  standing  before  her  with  the 
letter  sealed  and  stamped.  "And  I  hear  Serafin  coming 
for  it."  At  this  she  stood  up  and  waited  for  him  to  utter 
the  serious  message  that  hung  in  his  long  gaze:  "Now, 
Elsie,  my  darling  —  think  —  are  you  sure  you  wish  to 
send  it?  Wouldn't  later  do?" 

Serafin  was  a  shadow  in  the  doorway  behind  her  as  she 
answered.  Her  voice  reached  him  with  the  ringing  clear- 
ness of  a  child's,  it  was  so  desperate  and  sure:  "It  must 
go !  Let  me  be  honest  with  him  from  the  beginning !" 


108  The  Next  Corner 

"Eduardo  is  waiting,  Senor  Marques"  Serafin  said, 
and  approached  to  take  the  letter  Arturo  held  out. 

His  voice  startled  Elsie.  She  had  not  known  he  was 
so  close.  He  must  have  heard  what  she  said.  As  he  spoke 
she  turned  fully  upon  him  and  at  once  was  struck  by  an 
alertness  never  seen  in  him  before,  while  his  face  seemed 
locked  in  a  look  of  greediness  so  pushing  he  forgot  to 
hide  it.  Clearly,  she  felt,  he  was  burning  to  send  the 
letter  on  its  way. 

She  would  have  been  lacking  in  the  acute  precognition 
of  women  if  during  those  few  seconds  this  discovery  had 
not  tried  to  wing  its  warning  to  her.  If  her  enemy  were 
so  eager  to  have  the  letter  go,  how  could  it  be  other  than 
injurious  to  herself  to  satisfy  him? 

A  frayed  breath  broke  from  her  and  with  a  touch  of 
wildness  she  half  turned  Arturo  aside,  her  hand  closing 
on  his  above  the  gray-blue  square.  "Wait  —  wait !  Oh, 
maybe  I  ought  to  say  something  more  in  it,"  she  said  very 
low,  hoping  that  Serafin  would  not  hear,  " —  say  more 
than  I  did,  Arturo,  about  all  —  oh,  all  his  goodness  to 
me !  —  be  a  little  more  kind.  Send  word  for  Eduardo  to 
wait  a  few  moments,  Arturo  —  please.  I  could  say  — " 

"No."  Arturo  whispered  this  to  her,  the  decision  in 
his  face  like  the  blue  light  from  steel.  "If  you  are  sincere, 
want  to  be  forgotten  quickly  and  quickly  given  your  free- 
dom —  don't  be  too  kind !  You  have  written  the  plain 
truth.  Then  send  it  —  or  destroy  it.  Shall  I  fling  it  in 
the  fire?" 

For  a  few  seconds  her  eyes  wavered  in  doubt  while  no 
hint  of  the  detonating  consequences  that  hung  upon  her 
answer  stole  to  her.  "No."  She  gave  this  with  firm- 
ness as  she  made  a  gesture  of  acceptance  toward  Serafin 
and  moved  to  a  chair,  steadying  her  hands  upon  its  back. 

Her  deep  gaze  followed  the  man  as  he  hurried  from  the 
room  with  the  letter.  Arturo  came  to  her  side,  and  they 
both  stood  listening.  A  moment  later  Serafin's  voice  and 
another's  reached  them  from  without;  then  a  hoarse 
'Buenas  noches'  and  frantic,  coercive  chirrups  followed 


The  Next  Corner  109 

by  the  diminishing  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  flagged  road 
beside  the  garden. 

When  there  was  silence  again  except  for  the  wind  that 
was  now  like  the  woods'  high  singing,  Arturo  drew  Elsie 
to  the  couch  before  the  fire. 

"That  is  done  —  and  now  it  is  to  be  forgotten.  Let 
us  not  speak  of  that  letter  again,"  he  implored. 

"Only  this  once.  You're  very  sorry  that  I  sent  it. 
Isn't  that  so?" 

"At  first  I  was  —  yes.  Not  now.  For  I  see  quite 
well  that  3*ou  would  not  have  been  happy  otherwise.  Ah, 
my  Elsie  —  if  women  had  been  even  half  as  true  with  me 
as  you  have  been  with  Robert  Maury!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

DINNER  was  served  immediately,  and  from  the  begin- 
ning Arturo  made  it  a  joyous  thing.  Even  his  pretense 
of  a  slight  formality  with  Elsie  in  Serafin's  presence  was 
saturated  with  the  hidden  gladness  of  their  mutual  un- 
derstanding. And  when  Serafin  was  absent,  their  hasty 
caresses  had  the  sweetness  of  the  stolen  thing.  For  all 
Arturo's  poverty,  he  had  some  bottles  of  vintage  cham- 
pagne at  El  Miradero  and  one  was  brought  out,  the  cob- 
webs dusted  from  it,  and  drunk  with  toasts  that,  while 
not  more  in  speech  than  the  usual  "A  toil"  or  "Salud!" 
were  messages  of  love  in  warm  glances. 

In  the  shaded  light  Elsie  was  magically  lovely,  —  in 
every  detail  the  sort  of  blond  witch  that  at  sight  dis- 
turbs the  pulses  of  men  of  the  dark,  southern  races.  She 
in  radiant  white,  the  candles  under  white  lace,  no  color  on 
the  table  but  a  big  dish  of  apricots  and  carnations  of  the 
same  hue  in  small  vases,  made  a  picture  of  great  beauty. 

When  only  the  fruit  and  wine  were  left,  and  Serafin, 
with  a  low-voiced  "Buenas  noches,  Senor  Marques'"  and 
a  bow  that  included  Elsie,  had  departed  for  the  night, 
Arturo  moved  close  to  her  at  once,  his  black  eyes  restless 
with  love. 

"You  make  me  think  of  snow  and  stars  in  Russia,"  he 
said,  his  arm  about  her.  "Did  you  go  to  Russia,  chiquita, 
when  la  petite  Nina  went?" 

"No,  my  mother  never  took  me  on  European  journeys 
—  just  American  cities,  now  and  then.  I  told  you  how  I 
lived  in  New  York  with  my  father's  older  sister  when  I 
was  little.  But  after  I  was  married  I  lived  only  in  mining 
places  for  years.  When  I  came  to  Paris,  that  was  the 
first  time  I  crossed  the  ocean." 

110 


The  Next  Corner  111 

"Mining  towns?  —  Huy!"  he  said  with  distaste,  "Ah, 
no  wonder  after  such  crudity  Paris  went  to  your  little 
head,  Elsie.  I  remember  that  it  was  your  hungry,  joyous 
air  —  a  gamine's  —  as  you  ran  about  everywhere,  afraid 
of  missing  a  single,  exciting  thing,  that  first  caught  my 
heart." 

Elsie's  eyes  took  on  a  serious,  self-studying  look,  a 
smile  tinged  with  bitterness.  "Paris  did  go  to  my  head  — 
ah,  yes,  just  as  you  say.  There  was  a  mental  fever  at 
first  and,  after  I  met  you,  moral  coma  must  have  set  in 
gradually  —  for  you  see,  Arturo?  —  to-night  is  the 
sequel !" 

Arturo  ignored  this.  "Yes,"  he  murmured,  "you  look 
like  one  winter  night  in  St.  Petersburg  that  I  especially 
remember;  it  stands  out  like  a  diamond.  The  Nevsky, 
pure  white,  packed  with  snow  that  creaked  under  the  feet 
like  powdered  glass  and  sent  up  sparks  —  the  big  horses 
in  the  sledges  seeming  coated  with  sugar  —  and  the  moon- 
light so  queer  and  greenish  against  such  whiteness,  and 
the  ice  tossing  off  blue  lights  — " 

"How  beautiful,  Arturo !  But  as  you  detested  the 
Paris  winter,  I  can't  imagine  your  loving  that  icy  sort 
of  splendor." 

"I  did  not  say  I  loved  it  —  I  remember  it  for  its 
beauty.  You  have  looked  like  it,  to-night,  you  slim,  white 
wonder,  as  you  have  smiled  across  the  table  at  me.  Only 
the  outside!  Deeper,"  he  said,  with  a  long  sigh,  "there 
is  a  red,  red  rose  for  a  heart.  Do  I  not  know?"  he  whis- 
pered, and  let  his  lips  brush  her  shoulder  in  the  softest 
way. 

"Shall  we  go  to  Russia,  Arturo?"  she  asked,  her  head 
bent  to  his. 

"Anywhere  —  everywhere !  Let  us  be  two  Spanish 
gypsies,  who  care  not  whether  they  are  liked  or  hated  by 
others,  or  what  land  it  is,  as  long  as  they  can  keep  to- 
gether. But  the  place  I  think  of  for  us  now  is  —  Taor- 
mina."  He  drew  back,  his  face  inspired.  "Ah,  how  you 
will  love  that  spot,  Elsie!  No  infidel,"  he  said  with. 


112  The  Next  Corner 

spiritual  earnestness  that  lingered  in  him  under  his  aim- 
lessness  and  voluptuous  selfishness,  "could  stand  on  the 
hills  of  Taormina  above  the  sea  and  say:  'This  is  but  the 
result  of  chance.  No  God  made  it.'  For  it  is  —  God !" 

A  soul-moving  comfort,  as  from  the  Infinity  he  pic- 
tured, touched  Elsie.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken 
of  faith  in  a  life  to  come,  and  she  felt  a  rill  of  gratitude 
break  deeply  in  her  heart  that  he  should  have  said  these 
words  to  her  on  this  night  of  nights.  He  was  not  to  be 
bound  by  promises,  yet  she  felt  suddenly  a  sure  belief  that 
the  eternal  was  in  his  love,  since  he  could  speak  of  God 
to  her,  —  to  her,  a  rebel  against  law ;  alone  with  him 
there;  every  tie  with  her  past  security  deliberately  cut; 
at  his  mercy  for  happiness  or  wretchedness  in  the  years 
to  come. 

As  he  saw  the  seriousness  flow  into  her  gaze  he  scowled 
lovingly.  "I  have  made  you  think  of  solemn  things.  That 
must  not  be.  We  can  take  the  heaven  of  the  Church  on 
trust  —  for  I  feel  that  God  will  not  be  too  hard  upon  us 
—  and  wander  now  in  our  own  paradise  here."  His  arm 
tightened  about  her  in  hushed,  strong  yearning.  "When 
we  Spaniards  have  great  joy,  Elsie,  we  say:  lTomar  el 
cielo  con  las  manosT  —  that  is :  'We  will  seize  heaven  with 
our  hands !'  And  that  is  where  I  am  taking  you  —  ah, 
Elsie !  —  to  that  heaven  with  me." 

The  wind  seemed  to  cap  these  fervid  words  with  an 
orchestral  epilogue;  it  trilled  and  sighed  through  one  of 
the  now  opened  windows,  then  rose  in  warm,  high  strains 
that  yet  were  soft,  as  if  a  multitude  hummed  through 
closed  lips. 

"It  must  be  lovely  out  on  the  galleries  after  the  storm," 
Arturo  said,  springing  up.  "The  moon  is  in  its  last 
nights  and  rises  late.  I  want  you  to  see  it  —  but  you 
can't  go  as  you  are  —  you'd  be  a  drenched  butterfly." 

There  was  a  gay  ten  minutes  during  which  he  insisted 
on  fetching  black  slippers  from  her  room,  kneeling  before 
her  to  put  them  on,  laughing  while  he  kissed  each  silk-clad 
foot  before  he  did  so. 


The  Next  Corner  113 

"Ah,  que  noche!"  —  he  said  with  the  voice  of  one 
drowsy  from  too  much  delight.  "But  this  is  a  sweet 
thing  to  do  —  to  wait  upon  you,  dress  you,  help  you  so ! 
And  now  your  gown?  —  what  can  we  put  about  you  that 
won't  spoil  it?  It  would  tear  like  a  cobweb — " 

"It's  stronger  than  it  looks,"  Elsie  said,  nodding  wisely. 
"It  will  have  to  stand  long  wear  and  a  good  many  dry 
cleanings  before  I  can  throw  it  away  — " 

"Ah,  si?  Pobre  chiquita!"  A  cloud  went  over  him. 
"You  are  poor  now,  pretty  thing.  I  am  so  sorry." 

"But  I  am  so  happy !"  she  retorted,  and  then :  "Shall  I 
get  my  cloak?" 

"No  !"  He  was  alight  again,  his  finger  held  up,  "There 
is  something  that  I  just  remember.  I  have  packed  here 
some  ancient  mantillas  of  my  family,  that  my  mother  let 
me  have  for  decoration."  As  he  went  to  a  scarlet,  enam- 
elled chest  in  a  corner,  he  was  radiant.  When  from  a 
flat  package  he  drew  out  half  a  dozen  gloriously  em- 
broidered shawls  with  the  cry :  "Look !  And  this  —  and 
this,  too !"  she  saw  their  likeness  to  two  happy  children, 
playing  a  game. 

With  the  opening  of  the  paper  a  cascade  of  colors  had 
fairly  spilled  into  the  room  —  streams  of  crimson  and 
gold,  amethyst  and  apricot ;  of  sky-blue,  opaline,  apple- 
green,  flame  —  a  rainbow  flood.  He  chose  one  with  the 
Spanish  colors  to  shroud  in  the  native  way,  that  was 
almost  Eastern,  about  her  head  and  shoulders.  At  the 
gold  and  scarlet  framing  her  so  vividly,  hushed  exclama- 
tions of  almost  religious  ecstasy  broke  in  Spanish  from 
him,  and  Elsie  felt  the  flavor  of  fear  at  the  taste  of  too 
much  happiness.  It  faded  for  a  moment  at  some  words 
that  drifted  from  him  thoughtlessly: 

"I  used  these  at  a  mantilla  party  that  I  had  here  last 
year  —  ah,  very  gay  we  were !  —  but  not  one  looked  as 
you  do,  my  darling."  • 

She  drew  back  a  little.  "Some  woman  wore  this, 
then?" 

As  he  gave  a  shrug  of  regret  for  having  spoken,  he 


114  The  Next  Corner 

said  with  light  defiance:  "Well,  yes.  Not  a  man,  surely! 
—  But,  don't  mind !"  His  arm  enfolding  her  impetuously, 
he  drew  her  across  the  room  and  paused  at  the  entrance 
to  the  balcony.  "All  that  sort  of  thing  is  done  with  for- 
ever, Elsie  —  a  mixed-up  splash  in  my  mind,  from  which 
no  face  —  not  one  —  looks  out !"  As  a  conclusion  to 
the  words  he  pulled  open  the  door. 

And  a  wonder  was  before  them.  The  high  peaks  were 
silver,  the  lowest  valleys  gaping  mouths  of  shadow;  a 
dying  moon  traveled  the  sky  that  was  streaked  with  the 
fanged  trails  of  swollen  wind  clouds;  just  below  them 
lay  the  garden,  its  flowers  drained  of  color,  its  earthy 
walks  seeming  padded  with  snow,  while  across  it  the 
pattern  of  the  house  was  flung  as  if  stencilled  in  charcoal. 
The  whole  world  was  black  and  white. 

With  this  there  was  the  music  of  moving  water  left  by 
the  flood  of  rain.  A  complaining  gurgle  ran  along  the 
gutters  of  the  roof  above  them,  and  over  its  projecting, 
pointed  corners  a  lilting  note  from  the  fall  of  thin 
streams ;  somewhere,  farther  on,  the  rush  of  a  disgorging 
spout  was  heard,  that  ended,  more  faintly,  as  a  big  splash 
into  some  chasm.  On  the  intense  stillness  there  was  no 
other  sound. 

They  stood  in  silence.  Uncertainty  and  the  faintest 
quiver  of  regret  departed  from  Elsie  as  she  dreamed  there, 
her  head  against  Arturo's  arm.  What  she  looked  upon 
was  so  unlike  any  encompassment  that  had  ever  been  hers, 
she  felt  a  yielding  to  its  force  as  one  might  accept  the  be- 
wildering conditions  after  death  and  think  of  earth  no 
more.  Her  very  loneliness  with  this  man,  the  wild,  sweet 
flavor  of  whose  love  had  captured  her,  and  her  now  stark 
need  of  him,  filled  her  curiously  with  a  fatalistic  content- 
ment, a  rich  drowsiness.  The  years  ahead  of  them !  .  ..  . 
Ah,  the  long  years  —  if  Fate  were  kind  —  of  which 
to-night  was  the  prologue!  .  .  . 

And  with  this  surrender,  the  intense  passion  in  her  na- 
ture found  expression  in  little  ways  of  response,  —  the 
ways  born  with  some  women,  never  even  dimly  seen  by 


The  Next  Corner  115 

others,  and  beyond  the  acquiring  of  those  who,  seeing, 
try  to  capture  them  for  success  in  the  land  of  love.  It 
is  age-old,  this  magic,  and  goes  only  where  it  will,  like 
royal  favor.  Elsie  had  it.  Benumbed  in  the  taciturn 
days  with  Robert,  a  frightening  force  and  fought  down 
with  suffering,  heretofore,  in  her  resistance  to  Arturo's 
fiery  pursuit,  she  let  it  sweep  over  her  now;  a  sensuous 
melting. 

Her  head  sank  far  back,  her  eyes  looked  up  fully  into 
his,  her  hand  shot  up  to  his  face.  And  there  it  spoke  to 
him  as  no  words  could.  That  small  hand,  soft  as  flowers 
yet  with  a  savage  call  in  it,  stroked  his  cheek  with 
gossamer  lightness ;  stole  to  his  hair,  the  fingers  creeping 
through  it ;  and  came  back  to  flutter  with  the  brush  of  a 
butterfly's  wings  over  the  lovely  line  of  his  brows.  "Oh, 
but  I  do  love  you,"  she  said,  a  hard  sound  of  pain  in  the 
words,  and  with  sudden  violence  drew  down  his  head  to  the 
tempest  of  her  breath  and  lips. 

This  avowal  of  herself,  unsought,  flooded  Arturo  with 
a  new  joy  too  wonderful  for  belief,  and  left  him  hushed, 
trembling. 

"Elsie !"  broke  from  him  when  he  could  speak,  "Ah,  you 
are  too  sweet  —  too  precious !  Never  shall  we  part  — 
never,  never !" 

"And  I'll  never  think  again  with  hard  judgment  for 
what  I  have  chosen,"  she  murmured.  "I  am  happy,  Ar- 
turo." 

"Say  'Arturito'  —  that  is  my  little  name.  In  Spain 
we  always  add  on  letters  like  that  to  a  name,  where  we 
love." 

"Arturito,"  Elsie  repeated. 

"How  shall  I  make  your  name  into  a  little  one,  that 
way,  that  will  be  for  me  and  no  other?  It  is  so  English, 
I  cannot.  Never  mind.  I'll  think  of  a  Spanish  one  for 
you.  —  Come  to  the  other  side.  I  want  to  show  you  the 
precipice  in  this  light." 

They  had  almost  turned  from  the  rail  when  he  felt 
Elsie's  fingers  grow  hard  on  his  shoulder.  "What  is  that, 


116  The  Next  Corner 

down  there?"  she  said  with  a  driven  breath,  looking  back 
toward  the  side  that  they  were  leaving. 

"Where?" 

"You  see  that  shadow  on  the  path  —  there  —  the  one 
that  does  not  fit  into  the  shape  of  the  house  like  the  rest? 
It  is  not  from  the  house,  Arturo.  It  —  moved.  I  saw 
it." 

"It  does  not  move  now,"  he  said.  "Yet  you  are 
right  — " 

"It  is  a  cloak  —  like  a  shoulder,  too  —  and  a  hat. 
Don't  you  see?" 

As  they  spoke  and  he  was  bending  over  the  balcony  to 
call  out,  the  shadow  vanished. 

"Serafin,"  he  said  to  her  in  explanation.  "Yes,  it  was 
Serafin  wandering  about  on  the  road.  He  does  that  often. 
Come  — "  and  as  they  turned  the  corner,  he  added  with 
a  laughing  murmur  not  without  its  tinge  of  cruelty  since 
it  found  pleasure  in  another's  pain,  "I  know  very  well 
how  he  hates  having  to  leave  here.  He  has  an  adoration 
for  El  Miradero.  You  see,  he  is  of  the  mountains.  Yes, 
he  hates  to  go  away  by  the  coach  —  and  it's  only  a  few 
hours  off  now,  for  it  is  growing  late." 

The  abyss  that  met  them  on  the  other  stretch  of  bal- 
cony was  a  thing  to  hit  upon  the  heart  and  keep  it  sus- 
pended,—  beautiful,  appalling.  Elsie  felt  as  if  she  were 
clinging  to  Arturo  in  a  nest  built,  in  a  spirit  of  mad 
folly,  over  death.  She  turned  from  the  frowning  depths 
and  hid  her  face  against  him. 

"I  didn't  know  we  —  hung  —  like  this,"  she  mur- 
mured, and  gave  a  shiver. 

"Chiquita  —  frightened?" 

"Isn't  it  foolish  to  have  the  house  built  so?" 

"It  is  said  to  be  safer,  as  it  makes  it  a  part  of  the 
strong  mountain." 

"I  can't  look  down  there.     Let  us  go  back." 

"Come,  then."  He  led  her  to  the  other  side  and 
through  the  door  that  he  had  left  open. 

After  the  awful  majesty  without,  the  room  had  the 


The  Next  Corner  117 

spell  of  home.  Elsie  hurried  to  the  fire  and,  flinging  off 
the  gay  shawl,  sat  on  a  stool.  She  bent  over  the  heap  of 
red-hot  embers,  from  which  rich  forest  scents  rose,  and 
that  turned  the  silvered  whiteness  clothing  her  into  a 
crust  of  dancing  sparks. 

"You  are  not  as  cold  as  that,"  Arturo  mocked  lovingly, 
coming  to  her. 

"Yes,  I  am.     That  moon  made  me  see  —  horrors." 

"Ah,  Elsie,  you  have  a  fearfully  vivid  mind.  Your 
imagination  is  the  thing  that  makes  you  afraid.  You  see 
all  around  an  idea.  —  You  were  very  much  afraid  of  me 
at  first.  You  remember?" 

"Yes,"  she  nodded  musingly. 

"But  now  you  are  not?" 

"No,"  she  said  clearly,  with  a  look  of  dreaming  love. 

"Not  at  all?"  he  asked,  frowning  as  if  disappointed, 
and  knelt  beside  her. 

"Not  a  bit,"  she  smiled.  "It  is  your  turn  now.  You 
must  be  afraid  of  me  —  afraid  of  losing  me.  If  I  run 
away  from  you,  you'll  never  find  me  in  these  mountains !" 

He  answered  with  a  laugh  that,  while  soft,  was  of  the 
richest  triumph.  "You  will  never  run  away  from  me," 
and  by  his  look  she  knew  how  truly  she^was  the  woman 
adored,  and  with  madness  desired.  "I  have  made  you 
love  me.  And  you  are  going  to  love  me  more  and  more, 
every  day!  —  Darling,  you  hear?  —  it  is  striking  twelve. 
Shall  we  go  up-stairs?" 

"Not  yet,"  Elsie  murmured.  "A  little  longer  by  the 
fire." 

"Then  I'll  give  it  a  last  flare." 

He  said  this  with  sultry  calmness,  turned  to  the  desk 
and  came  back  with  rustling  papers  in  his  hands.  To  her 
look  of  inquiry  he  gave  a  smiling  sneer,  a  twitch  of  the 
brows. 

"You  would  never  imagine  what  these  are:  old  love 
letters,  to  me!  I  spread  them  out  and  read  them  in  a  fit 
of  melancholy  the  other  day,  when  I  thought  you  were  not 
coming." 


118  The  Next  Corner 

While  kneeling  to  push  the  papers  under  the  embers 
he  saw  that  at  the  words  her  face  had  darkened,  and  with 
the  new,  high  flame  upon  him,  he  swung  back  to  her  to 
lay  his  head  with  ecstasy  on  her  breast: 

"Ah,  don't  you  see  how  I  dreamed  over  these  husks  from 
a  few  who  had  loved  me,  when  I  thought  you  did  not  and 
had  gone  from  me  forever?  And  don't  you  see  how  they 
make  a  fitting  blaze  to  light  a  last  log  for  us  to-night?" 

After  throwing  on  some  wood,  he  settled  himself  at 
her  feet,  facing  her,  his  arms  on  her  knees,  his  back  to 
the  room,  and  drew  from  his  finger  the  ring  with  which 
he  had  sealed  her  letter.  In  a  serious  and  tender  way  he 
lifted  her  left  hand. 

"This  is  tight  on  my  little  finger,  so  it  may  fit  your 
biggest  one.  There !  —  It  is  loose  upon  it,  but  it  will  do. 
Now,  listen  to  me,  Elsie,"  and  he  held  her  gaze  with  one 
of  deepest  love,  "I  give  this  ring  to  you.  There  is  no 
other  like  it  in  the  world.  I  give  it  to  you  —  forever. 
It  binds  us  —  forever.  White  dove  —  very  dearest  —  if 
I  could  give  you  more!  ..." 

As  he  crouched  lower,  his  head  almost  on  her  knees, 
Elsie,  her  face  illumined,  bent  silently  over  the  ring.  He 
watched  her  with  luxurious  content  and  saw  her,  still 
without  speaking,  lift  her  hand  high  to  let  the  firelight 
play  upon  it.  Then  he  saw  the  raised  arm  stiffen  convul- 
sively —  saw  it  sink  as  if  it  were  stone  —  while  her  face 
became  that  of  a  statue,  its  rigid  gaze  fastened  in  terror 
beyond  him. 

A  frog-like  coldness  was  roughening  him  as,  still  look- 
ing at  her,  he  started  inquiringly  to  his  knees :  "Elsie  — ?" 

"A  man  — !"  Her  stare  unchanged,  this  broke  from 
her,  a  hushed  stammer  that  acted  on  Arturo  like  the  pull 
of  a  rope. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  swung  about. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

AND  there  was  a  man.  He  was  between  the  portieres 
that  shut  off  the  hall  to  the  servants'  quarters ;  they  were 
of  some  pale  heavy  stuff  and  he  made  a  somber  splash 
against  them.  For  his  clothes  were  of  raven  blackness,  — 
the  accentuated  mourning  of  Spain;  that  they  were  also 
the  ample  Spanish  cloak  whose  folds  upon  one  shoulder 
were  packed  to  his  ear,  and  the  broad-brimmed  hat  which 
cast  its  wide  shade,  added  notes  so  outre  to  foreign  eyes, 
they  called  for  drama  as  a  background.  Out  of  this  sable 
oblong  his  middle-aged  peasant  face  gleamed,  chalk- 
white;  his  shadowed  eyes  were  oblique  like  Serafin's,  and 
deep-set,  Asiatic,  they  burned  a  call  to  accounting  across 
the  big  room. 

The  shadow  that  had  moved  upon  the  garden! 
Memory  of  it  came  at  Elsie  like  the  worrying  of  amazed 
hands.  Here  it  was  materialized.  It  had  entered  the 
house.  Steadfast,  it  faced  them,  stormy  with  some 
meaning. 

She  had  risen  and  stood  away  from  the  fire,  a  little  be- 
hind Arturo.  The  situation  had  evolved  so  rapidly,  its 
reality  eluded  her  and  she  could  only  take  it  in  as  a  pic- 
ture. The  man's  look  held  riveted  grief,  enveloping  con- 
tempt ;  it  was  hard  and  cold  as  iron,  yet  with  flame  in  it. 
Peasant  though  he  was,  as  shown  by  the  broad  face,  thick, 
short  body,  the  coarse  hand  that  clutched  his  cloak,  his 
cumbersome  clay-covered  boots,  the  subtlety  and  reserve 
hung  about  him  that  she  had  come  to  recognize  as  the 
proud  heritage  of  the  Basque. 

She  could  not  see  Arturo's  face,  only  knew  that  at  the 
first  sight  of  the  man  he  had  stood  frozen  and  still  in 
some  terrible  way. 

119 


120  The  Next  Corner 

After  this  moment  of  silence,  neither  moving,  the 
stranger  poured  out  a  flood  of  rapid  Spanish.  It  was 
like  the  bursting  of  waters  long  imprisoned,  that  swept 
out  of  him  as  if  without  any  will  of  his.  Unintelligible 
to  her  in  the  words,  their  meaning  —  an  accusation  of 
bitter  hate  —  was  as  clear  as  sunlight.  Arturo  was  cold, 
only  a  curt,  annoyed  phrase  breaking  from  him  now  and 
then  in  denial. 

"I  see  you  have  not  forgotten  me,"  had  been  the  peas- 
ant's greeting.  "I  have  come,  as  I  wrote  you  I  would. 
I  heard  you  were  here,  and  I  waited  my  chance.  For 
days  I  have  been  in  this  neighborhood,  watching,  while 
I  hid  like  a  thief.  And  to-night  —  you  left  your  door 
open!  I  walked  in.  Yes,  through  your  open  door  I 
came,  for  God  had  willed  it  so.  From  the  day  I  knew 
she  had  gone  with  you  —  a  year  ago,  now  —  I  knew  that 
sometime  we  would  stand  just  as  we  are!  —  My  daughter 
has  been  in  her  grave  a  month  now,  with  her  child,  both 
in  one  coffin  —  in  ground  unsanctified.  ...  I  came  on 
here  —  and  you  left  your  door  open,  so  that  without  diffi- 
culty I  could  enter."  He  gave  a  chilling  murmur  as  a 
laugh.  "You  see,  Senor  Marques,  how  God  has  ordered 
it  all  —  made  the  path  easy  for  me?  Why,  look!  —  my 
daughter  in  her  unsanctified  grave  —  and  your  door  wide 
open  to  me!" 

The  strife  grew  tense.  An  implacable  fierceness  had 
come  to  the  visitor's  whole  manner,  though  he  had  not 
stirred  a  step,  the  vehemence  entirely  in  the  gestures  of 
hand  and  fingers,  while  the  rushing  Spanish  phrases,  ab- 
solutely unaccented  and  evenly  rhythmed  as  the  rat-a-tat 
of  wheelwork,  left  Elsie  dazed.  While  aware  that  her 
heart  was  beating  very  fast,  she  was  not  terribly  alarmed, 
not  even  when,  during  the  running  clatter  of  words,  the 
man  had  pointed  at  her  with  a  look  of  overwhelming  in- 
sult, for  she  had  come  to  know  that  among  the  Spanish 
even  a  slight  difference  of  opinion  could  cause  a  cascade 
of  excited  language.  Arturo's  sharp  "Pero  no!"  and  the 
countryman's  sweeping,  fierce,  "Pero  si,  Senor  Marques!" 


The  Next  Corner  121 

might  mean  no  more  than  that  he  was  a  discharged  ser- 
vant or  a  tradesman  to  whom  money  was  owing. 

Her  first  fear  came  with  a  shaping  misgiving  after  this 
thought:  Why,  in  such  case,  did  not  Arturo  ring  for  his 
servants?  Why  did  he  stand  in  one  spot  as  if  stricken 
of  the  power  to  move,  or  as  if  the  slightest  move  might 
be  dangerous,  perhaps  the  thing  to  project  disaster  of 
some  sort?  Why,  instead  of  disdaining  to  listen  to  the 
man,  did  he  remain  stock-still,  listening  with  strained  at- 
tention? Why  did  his  replies,  crisp  and  contemptuous 
though  they  were,  come  on  a  hurried  breath  as  if  he  were 
fagged  from  running? 

In  a  moment  she  knew  why.  He  edged  slowly  toward 
her  in  a  guarded  way,  while  keeping  a  semi-gaze  on  his 
opponent.  And  fright  was  written  upon  Arturo.  It  was 
controlled  fright,  that  longed  to  send  out  a  call  for  help 
and  did  not  dare.  Lips  and  eyes  seemed  those  of  a  mask, 
they  were  so  stiff,  while  in  piteous  unlikeness  to  them  a 
line  of  small  drops,  that  could  have  come  only  from  the 
viscera  of  feeling,  sparkled  upon  the  livid  forehead;  the 
nostrils  were  pinched,  a  greenish  tinge  spreading  from 
them.  Yet,  most  appalling  to  Elsie  was  his  attempt  to 
convey  an  air  of  confidence  matching  a  tone  that  he  tried 
to  keep  suave,  merely  that  of  a  courteous  host,  while  his 
words  made  his  stark  peril  plain  to  her : 

"Go  quietly,  Elsie,  as  if  you  were  bidding  me  good 
night.  He  does  not  understand  what  I  am  saying,  but 
I  dare  not  mention  a  name.  Send  my  valet  to  me  at  once. 
The  room  is  on  the  right  side  of  the  hall  past  where  this 
fellow  is  standing.  Don't  knock  or  call.  Go  in,  send 
him  to  me  without  his  waiting  to  dress.  But  don't  seem 
to  hurry.  Quietly,  for  God's  sake.  Don't  let  him  sus- 
pect." He  managed  a  smile  that  had  the  twitch  of  a 
grimace  and  the  hand  that  he  waved  slightly,  as  if  in 
genial  farewell,  trembled  in  spite  of  his  rigorous  effort 
to  keep  it  steady. 

She  tried  to  obey  him,  tried  to  copy  his  attempt  at 
composure,  and  began  her  walk  to  the  curtains  beside 


122  The  Next  Corner 

which  the  shadow  still  stood.  To  her  weighted  feet  they 
seemed  a  mile  away. 

The  man  had  continued  talking.  As  she  slowly  neared 
him,  his  voice  took  on  a  conclusive  fall.  "We  were  a 
happy  family.  My  daughter  was  good.  You  have  tried 
to  say  differently  in  your  excuse.  A  lie.  Ascuncion  was 
good.  We  had  reared  her  carefully.  When  you  first 
came  her  way,  I  knew  the  sort  you  were,  and  I  drove 
you  off  with  threats.  Then  she  disappeared  —  went  to 
you.  Ah,"  he  said  with  terrible  bitterness,  "it  was  not 
many  months  before  she  was  back  —  different  then !  You 
had  left  her  with  money  'and  directions  to  go  home,  and 
had  gone  your  way.  And  that  ended  the  matter  for  you, 
senor.  But,  ah,  no !  —  You  took  her,  finished  with  her, 
threw  her  away,  and  she  is  in  unsanctified  ground  to- 
night. So  now  we  will  have  the  end  —  the  one  that  satis- 
fies me." 

The  curtains  were  reached.  Elsie  had  put  her  hand 
upon  them  when  a  few  words  that  she  could  understand 
rang  out  behind  her,  such  hate  in  them  they  seemed  to 
fall  upon  her  own  sensitive  body  like  stones  — "perfidio! 
— ladron!" 

On  the  last  raging  syllable  there  was  a  shot. 

The  crash  sent  her  unsteadily  and  face  downward 
against  the  curtain  that  she  held  to  while  a  gasping  call 
for  Serafin  left  her.  When  she  tried  to  swing  about,  a 
hand  fastened  brutally  on  her  bare  shoulder  and  pressed 
her  head  forward  so  that  she  could  not  turn  an  inch. 

There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  room  behind  her.  No 
cry,  no  step,  and  yet  she  knew  that  the  stillness  was  more 
to  be  feared  than  anger  or  prayers,  that  something  dread- 
ful was  there  which  she  could  not  see. 

Another  shot  made  clamor.  Though  this  came  as  the 
end  of  all  things  to  Elsie's  frayed  sense,  she  heard  a 
stumble  after  it,  a  sound  as  of  a  falling  chair,  and  Ar- 
turo's  voice  saying  "Serafin"  in  a  bubbling,  feeble  way. 
The  big  hand  that  bruised  her  relaxed,  gave  her  a  flouting 
thrust,  and  she  managed  to  turn.  She  was  like  something 


The  Next  Corner  123 

that  had  no  feet  to  keep  her  upon  substance,  something 
that  seemed  made  of  water  —  and  she  saw  Arturo  .  .  . 

He  was  sprawled  across  an  overturned  chair,  his  head 
back.  She  could  see  his  open  mouth,  blood  stealing  from 
it.  And  he  was  still,  oh,  informingly  still  in  that  con- 
torted pose,  so  different  from  his  grace,  so  different  from 
—  himself.  The  white  square  of  his  shirt  was  changing 
to  a  scarlet  square  and  the  hand  that  was  hanging  was 
also  red. 

"SeTwr  — !"  This,  a  call,  hoarse  and  trembling,  shat- 
tered the  hush,  and  close  to  the  spot  where  Elsie  stood  on 
those  shadowy  feet  that  had  threatened  to  throw  her, 
Serafin  appeared. 

The  curtains  leaped  out  with  the  force  of  his  fling  as 
he  ran  to  Arturo.  His  entrance  was  like  the  rush  of  a 
storm.  He  was  in  a  dressing  gown  that  hung  open,  show- 
ing his  night  clothes,  his  hair  tossed.  He  bent  down  — 
briefly  —  rose  stiffly,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  man. 

"Muerto!"  As  he  said  this,  his  hand  rose,  shaking,  and 
he  crossed  himself. 

Elsie  had  not  realized  his  love  for  Arturo.  The  engulf- 
ing anguish  in  that  one  word  that,  though  never  heard 
before,  she  understood,  made  her  know  it  now. 

The  stranger  had  gone  slowly  to  the  balcony  door.  He 
pulled  it  open.  Ghastly,  of  a  deadly  composure,  he  stood 
straight  and  began  to  speak  to  Serafin  in  quiet  tones, 
each  sentence  with  a  clipped  finish: 

"No  one  has  seen  me  come,  and  none  shall  see  me  go. 
I  am  leaving  for  America.  You  can  keep  silent,  if  you 
will.  But  accuse  me,  have  me  caught,  and  I  will  make 
his  name  —  a  dog's  —  through  Spain."  He  looked  ear- 
nestly at  the  crumpled  body  growing  rigid  in  the  supreme 
stillness.  "Her  soul  will  rest  now,  perhaps,"  he  said  with 
deep  sadness,  and  went  out  with  an  unhurried,  almost  a 
reverent  step,  closing  the  door  after  him. 

Serafin  knelt  beside  Arturo.  He  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross  above  the  stark  face.  Utter  hopelessness  hung  upon 
him  as  he  gazed  and  gazed,  touching  the  forehead  and 


124  The  Next  Corner 

cheek  —  an  awed  caress.  As  Elsie  saw  him  nerve  himself 
to  make  his  fingers  close  the  eyes  and  press  on  the  lids,  as 
she  saw  his  dark,  thin  hands  force  the  mouth  shut,  a 
strength  came  out  of  the  fog  of  horror  and  sent  her  to 
him,  stumbling,  voiceless,  all  the  sense  of  which  she  was 
capable  focussed  in  a  stupid,  asking  gaze. 

He  looked  up,  saw  her,  and  rose.  As  he  faced  her, 
implacable  hatred  flashed  through  his  haggardness  and 
flickered  around  his  drawn  eyes. 

"Dead?"  Elsie  asked,  the  word  thick  in  some  horrible 
way  and  crowding  her  bitter-tasting  mouth. 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  no,"  came  on  a  thin,  imploring  wail.  "Oh,  no," 
she  said  again,  looking  down  at  the  body  that  seemed 
broken  there  before  them,  stained  red  and  sprawling 
ignobly,  —  so  lacking  now  in  any  trace  of  pride. 

Serafin  sullenly  glowered  upon  her,  a  look  to  kill. 
When  she  had  half  knelt,  he  caught  her  up  under  the  arms 
and  flung  her  back  with  a  force  that  sent  her  against  the 
table. 

"This  is  your  fault,"  she  heard  him  say  as  if  through  a 
haze.  "It  was  because  of  you  that  he  came  here  so  early. 
Even  when  he  believed  you  had  gone  to  America,  he  quit 
Paris  because  he  could  not  bear  it  with  you  not  there. 
Never  before  did  he  come  here  until  late  in  July.  If  he 
had  waited  until  then,  things  might  have  been  arranged. 
He  knew  of  his  danger  —  I  warned  him.  But  he  paid  no 
heed  —  because  of  you,  because  he  had  lost  his  senses 
about  you.  And  that  is  why  he  is  there  —  dead.  Because 
of  you !" 

"Oh,  no,"  was  all  Elsie  could  say,  a  prayer,  a  dazed 
whimper. 

"Yes,  yes !"  This  rang  from  him  with  increased  venom. 
"And  no  doubt  you  are  sorry  now,  madame,  that  you 
did  not  take  his  advice  and  destroy  the  letter  that 
Eduardo  took  away.  You  sent  it,  because  you  were  so 
sure  —  in  your  conceit.  I  hope  you  are  sorry.  I  hope 
you  would  give  your  right  hand  to  recall  it !" 


The  Next  Corner  125 

Her  sick,  turgid  look,  struggling  to  grasp  memory, 
might  have  touched  a  stone.  Her  hand  went  up  to  her 
wet  face.  Oh,  yes  —  the  letter  —  the  letter  to  Robert 
that  cut  her  off  from  him,  from  her  old  life,  that  left  her 
a  stranger  to  everything  familiar.  Oh,  yes,  the 
letter!  .  .  . 

One  moment  she  saw  it,  a  gray-blue  atom,  making  its 
way  steadily  westward  like  a  slow-flying  bird.  The  next, 
and  its  meaning  slipped  from  her  into  a  swallowing  space. 
She  felt  only  the  nearer  tragedy,  saw  only  the  dead 
man  who  had  loved  her. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  harshly  painted  wall  of  cornflower  blue  and  be- 
side it  the  bed  draped  with  the  velvet  cope  of  crimson  and 
gold.  Elsie,  in  the  room  that  was  to  have  been  hers,  sat 
staring  at  these  with  unmoving  eyes.  She  did  not  see 
them  for  what  they  were;  they  seemed  only  the  bright 
background  against  which  the  scenes  in  her  thoughts 
raced  past. 

Her  lips  were  slackly  apart  as  if  she  had  the  wish  to 
cry  out  at  what  she  watched,  but  not  the  power.  She 
still  wore  her  mistlike  gown;  it  was  stained,  crushed,  one 
of  its  frail  lengths  torn.  This,  and  the  loosened  hair 
that  sagged  downward  in  a  half  coil  were  notes  in  the 
picture  of  disaster  that  she  made.  She  sat  as  if  she  had 
not  moved  for  years,  as  if  she  would  never  move  again. 

Over  and  over  the  happenings  of  the  past  two  hours 
took  on  for  her  a  shadowy  sort  of  life :  There  was  Serafin 
ordering  her  away  to  her  room  and  calling  in  the  horri- 
fied servants  to  the  work  of  readjustment.  There  she 
was,  trying  to  obey  him,  yet  loitering  piteously,  too  nerve- 
strapped  for  the  relief  of  tears.  She  saw  him  come  to 
her  and  try  to  sweep  her  from  the  room  with  his  arm  that 
had  the  authority  of  a  conqueror's;  at  last  half-carry 
her  up  the  stairs. 

In  the  bedroom,  he  had  put  her  into  a  chair  and  stood 
over  her.  She  had  been  conscious  of  looking  up  at  him, 
a  longing  for  comfort  of  some  sort  struggling  through  a 
dumbness  whose  rivets  were  horror.  And  she  had  been 
conscious,  too,  that  his  face  was  as  livid  as  Arturo's, 
while  the  eyes  whose  brightness  made  an  uncanny  con- 
trast were  cautious  and  businesslike  as  were  all  his  move- 
ments and  tones.  He  was  passionately  capaWe. 

126 


The  Next  Corner  127 

Most  of  his  words  stuck  to  her  memory  in  patches: 
"Get  your  wits  about  you  .  .  .  you  look  stupid  enough 
to  spoil  everything  .  .  .  Listen  to  me,  madame  .  .  . 
work  to  be  done  here  .  .  .  you  must  realize  where  we 
all  stand,  and  help.  .  .  .  How  much  of  the  quarrel  did 
you  understand?" 

He  shook  her  as  he  spoke,  and  she  had  made  a  hideous 
effort  to  drag  response  from  her  mazed  brain ;  it  was  like 
groping  into  the  mess  of  a  wreck  where  the  dead  lay  to 
fish  out  some  ghastly  detail.  What  had  she  understood? 
Little,  she  told  him;  almost  nothing.  Only  at  the  last, 
when  the  murderer  had  spoken  slowly,  two  words  had 
made  sense  to  her  —  perfidio  and  ladron. 

"Perfidious  thief?"  Serafin  suggested,  and  she  had 
nodded.  "Exactly,"  he  went  on.  "The  quarrel  was  about 
some  money  that  the  Senor  Marques  had  owed  the  coun- 
tryman for  a  long  time.  You  see?  But  that  is  not  to 
be  made  public.  No  one  is  to  know  there  was  a  quarrel 
at  all.  You  understand  me?  It  is  to  be  supposed  that 
the  Senor  Marques  surprised  a  thief  breaking  into  his 
house  —  there  are  plenty  of  them  in  these  mountains  — 
that  shots  were  exchanged,  the  thief's  killing  him.  That 
is  to  be  the  story.  The  servants  know  little  and  will  do 
as  I  instruct.  And  the  thief  will  disappear,  an  unknown 
man,  who  will  not  be  traced.  The  family's  name  must  be 
safeguarded,  kept  clean  of  the  slightest  scandal.  Do  you 
fully  realize  what  I  am  saying  to  you?" 

With  her  struggling  gaze  upon  him  she  had  said  she 
understood. 

"Very  good,  then.  When,  a  little  later,  you  hear  two 
shots,  do  not  be  alarmed.  You  will  know  that  I  am  emp- 
tying two  chambers  from  the  Senor  Marques' s  pistol,  so  it 
will  appear  that  he  fired  to  defend  himself.  If  at  any 
future  time,  by  any  chance,  you  are  dragged  into  this, 
you  will  know  what  to  say?" 

"Yes,"  she  had  replied  obediently,  following  him  by  an 
effort.  "I  will  be  careful  when  the  people  come  here.  I 
—  I  will  say  — " 


128  The  Next  Corner 

"You  will  not  be  here  to  say  anything,"  Serafin  had 
broken  in  and  seized  her  by  the  arm.  "There  will  be 
enough  to  explain  in  my  venturing  to  move  the  body  — 
pretending  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  no  right  to  touch 
it  —  but  I  could  not  leave  it  as  it  was,  for  it  may  be  after- 
noon before  the  authorities  arrive.  So  I  do  not  want 
you  on  my  hands.  Take  off  that  dress  and  get  ready  to 
leave.  Put  on  what  you  came  in  —  fortunate  that  your 
trunk  has  not  been  unpacked.  —  Get  ready !"  and  with 
his  breathless  air  intensifying  in  capableness,  he  had  left, 
closing  the  door  after  him. 

These  various  points  had  remained  clear  to  her  only 
for  a  short  while ;  all,  but  the  fact  that  no  one  must  know 
it  was  because  of  a  sordid  money  trouble  that  Arturo  had 
been  murdered,  disappeared  in  the  eclipse  that  had  come 
upon  her. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  Serafin  had  been  gone  when 
two  shots  rang  out  from  somewhere  within  the  house. 
They  brought  her  to  her  feet.  These  —  the  same  sounds 
that  had  produced  the  earlier  debacle  —  struck  through 
her  torper  now  and  caught  her  up  as  part  of  life.  Like 
the  keynote  that  starts  a  tune,  they  made  Arturo's  last 
guarded  appeal  real  to  her  again;  that  woeful  simulation 
of  a  smile  out  of  the  doom  in  his  face  came  back  at  her ; 
through  all  her  serves  she  heard  his  fall  once  more,  then 
saw  herself  turning  to  see  him  where  he  lay.  .  .  . 

After  one  whirling  moment  she  recalled  Serafin's  warn- 
ing words  about  the  shots,  and  though  this  came  as  a 
relief  that  brought  a  cold  moisture  upon  her  skin,  now 
that  she  was  aroused  she  had  but  one  motive  —  to  get  out 
of  the  lonely  room  whose  specters  were  as  agonizing  as 
the  reality  she  was  to  seek,  and  over  which  she  could  spend 
her  heart  in  tears.  For  the  tears  had  come.  They  were 
shaking  her  as  she  opened  the  door,  as  she  went  along  the 
gallery  and  down  the  stairs. 

The  living  room  was  empty,  Serafin's  voice  and  a  ser- 
vant's sounding  from  somewhere  outside.  As  Elsie  made 
her  way,  both  hands  gripping  the  balustrade,  her  eyes 


The  Next  Corner  129 

sought  the  spot  where  Arturo  had  fallen.  The  over- 
turned chair  was  exactly  as  it  had  been,  and  beside  it  an 
irregular,  pulpy-looking  stain  that  seemed  black  except 
where  the  candles  showed  it  bright  red  on  the  palest 
patches  of  the  rug.  To  these  records  of  the  tragedy  a 
pistol  had  been  added  and  lay  a  few  feet  from  them. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  her  gaze  swayed  beyond  these 
things,  then  beyond  the  lighted  middle  part  to  the  corners, 
searching,  without  finding  what  she  sought.  Instinct 
made  her  cross  to  the  hall  that  she  knew  led  to  Arturo's 
room  on  the  precipice  side  of  the  house,  and  in  a  moment 
it  faced  her  with  open  door  at  the  end  of  the  passage, 
dimly  lighted  and  also  empty,  —  a  different  emptiness. 
On  its  threshold  the  feeling  that  she  was  alone  left  her; 
there  was  something  fearfully  living  about  the  great, 
great  Hush  that  seemed  to  guard  the  long  ridge  covered 
by  a  sheet  and  rising  from  the  center  of  the  bed. 

In  swooning  grief  she  fell  to  her  knees  beside  this,  laid 
her  arm  solemnly  across  it.  She  could  not  look  upon  the 
face  that  had  the  expression  of  sculpture  under  the  thin 
linen.  The  iron  hardness  of  the  body,  the  silence  where 
the  high-throbbing  heart  had  been  were  as  much  as  she 
could  bear.  Under  their  appalling  message,  she  seemed 
to  drown. 

A  hand  joggling  her  shoulder,  a  repressed  voice  utter- 
ing angry  words  came  to  Elsie  as  if  from  far  away.  She 
was  lying  half  over  the  bed,  her  face  upturned,  the  lashes, 
on  which  the  pouring  tears  had  dried  stiffly,  jutting  from 
below  the  tensely  shut  eyes. 

"You  are  —  here!"  Low-voiced  fury  in  Spanish  fol- 
lowed, and  then :  "Get  up,  get  up !" 

She  made  a  stumbling  effort  to  obey  and  failed.  The 
submerging,  emptying  quality  of  grief  like  hers  made  her 
feel  as  if  she  too  had  died.  It  was  as  the  shell  of  a  body 
that  still  had  eyes  that  she  looked  up  at  Serafin,  tried  to 
take  in  what  he  was  saying. 

"You  have  not  done  as  I  told  you!" 

"Done?". 


130  The  Next  Corner 

"You  are  still  like  this.  I  told  you  nearly  an  hour  ago, 
to  dress  yourself  for  going  away  — " 

"Going?  — Going?".    .    . 

"Get  up !" 

The  venom  in  the  thin-lipped  undertone  shook  her  more 
than  a  yell  would  have  done.  When  she  tried  to  scramble 
to  her  feet  and  tripped  on  the  torn  flounce,  he  jerked  her 
up  and  held  her  so,  steadying  her,  his  long  and  pitiless 
face  close  to  hers. 

"You  will  not  make  a  scene,"  he  said,  and  it  was  advice 
that  threatened.  "You  are  going  quietly.  You  see  this 
is  the  only  thing  to  be  done." 

Without  replying,  she  tried  vainly  to  get  free  of  him, 
and  as  her  look  rested  again  on  the  sheeted  body,  the 
floods  that  she  had  thought  spent  rushed  out  with  new 
wildness.  "Oh,  see,  oh,  see !  —  Oh,  Arturo?"  She  turned 
toward  Serafin,  her  face  twisted.  "Go  away  a  little  while. 
Oh,  leave  me  here  —  a  little  while !" 

"Senora!"  This  came  in  a  stern  call  as  to  one  at  a 
distance.  He  shook  her,  keeping  her  face  in  the  grip  of 
his  palms.  "Look  at  me."  As  her  eyes  opened,  showing 
a  clot  of  tears  and  dull  pain,  he  spoke  each  word  in 
separated  clearness  as  if  teaching  a  child  a  lesson. 
"Every  moment  is  precious,  and  you  are  wasting  them. 
You  must  leave  El  Miradero  on  the  coach.  It  is  due  here 
almost  at  once."  As  he  felt  her  tremble  at  this,  then 
harden  and  draw  back,  he  went  on  with  a  decision  that 
had  an  exultant  brutality:  "If  you  do  not  go  up  and 
change  your  dress,  if  you  refuse  to  go  quietly,  at  once, 
I  will  make  you.  Do  you  hear?  You  do  not  know  me, 
senora.  When  it  becomes  necessary  for  me  to  act  with- 
out consideration,  I  can  do  so  very  thoroughly.  Don't 
make  me  force  you  to  leave." 

He  had  not  counted  on  the  strength  that  can  belong 
to  hysterical  distress.  Elsie's  arms  swept  him  back.  She 
changed  to  a  menace.  The  fury  in  her  face  rubbed  out 
its  beauty  and  brought  the  look  of  an  animal  almost  over- 
come that  backs  before  its  enemy  watchfully,  ready  to 
attack  in  some  way  to  save  its  life. 


The  Next  Corner  131 

And  then,  as  through  her  anger  the  thought  took  her 
that  such  words  could  be  spoken  to  her  beside  Arturo 
only  because  he  could  not  hear  them  nor  any  sound  of 
life  again,  the  piteous  impotence  of  the  dead  pierced  her 
with  its  appeal,  and  to  struggle  beside  that  Stillness  that 
could  not  defend  her  became  suddenly  an  ugly  thing. 
Keeping  her  face  to  Serafin,  she  drew  back  into  the  hall, 
he  following  her. 

"I'll  speak  to  you  here,"  she  said. 

He  closed  the  door,  his  hand  continuing  on  the  knob, 
and  looked  at  her  with  the  air  of  one  who  finds  waiting 
hard. 

"Now  what  do  you  mean?"  Elsie  asked,  making  a  su- 
preme effort  to  be  mistress  of  the  moment,  as  was  her 
right.  She  kept  very  straight  before  him,  though  quiver- 
ing deeply,  he  could  see.  "You  tell  me  what  I  must  do? 
You  —  tell  me !"  came  on  a  choking  sob  with  wrath. 
"You  forget  your  position  here,  and  that  I  am  a  guest." 
She  almost  broke  down,  had  to  steady  herself  by  seizing 
the  casing  of  the  door.  "It's  horrible  to  be  tortured  by 
you  this  way.  Let  me  alone,  oh,  let  me  alone!  Oh,  can't 
you  see — ?" 

Serafin  did  not  permit  himself  to  look  directly  at  her. 
He  allowed  her  last  words  to  die  away  before  he  spoke, 
and  then  the  implacability  that  had  come  to  his  level  gaze 
was  in  his  words.  "As  I  told  you,  madame,  we  are  wast- 
ing very  precious  time.  Now  I  ask  you  politely  —  will 
you  go?" 

"You  keep  saying  that,"  she  muttered  desperately. 
"Go?  Where  can  I  go?  I'll  stay  here  a  little  while,  till 
I  can  see  —  what  to  do.  I've  a  right  here  — " 

"I  tell  you  it  is  impossible.  It  would  be  very  unwise 
for  you  to  be  found  here  by  the  authorities  — " 

"I  could  explain,"  she  broke  in,  her  mind  clearer,  her 
urging  passionate.  "I  came  as  a  guest  —  and  I'll  say 
what  you  told  me  —  I'll  remember  —  I'll  say  I  was  in 
my  room,  and  heard  the  shots,  and  came  down.  What 
harm  could  there  be,  if  — " 


132  The  Next  Corner 

"We  will  leave  all  that  then.  There  is  another  reason." 
The  words  that  followed  were  cold  and  measured,  an  im- 
mutable exclusion  of  her  under  them.  "When  Aniceto 
went  on  his  bicycle  an  hour  ago  for  the  police,  he  went 
also  to  the  Senora  Marquesas  house  to  tell  her  that  her 
son  was  dead.  She  and  her  daughter  will  soon  be  here." 

Elsie  remained  silent,  only  leaning  more  heavily  against 
the  door. 

"This  is  enough.  From  this  you  see  how  you  cannot 
stay." 

"Why  not?"  She  asked  this  faintly,  though  a  new  sort 
of  fear  of  him  began  in  her  at  the  look  of  disrespect  that 
brazenly  widened  his  eyes.  "If  I  tell  Arturo's  mother 
how  I  came  here  —  if  I  explain  — " 

"Explain?"  he  mocked.  "You  are  not  a  fool,  madame! 
You  know  the  world.  You  know  that  the  Senora  Mar- 
quesa  cannot  meet  the  woman  who  was  here  with  her  son !" 

Elsie  slowly  grew  very  cold,  her  look  floundering  about 
him.  "The  —  woman?"  The  word  sent  her  mouth  awry 
as  if  an  acid  had  touched  it. 

"Exactly,"  he  replied  incisively.  "Bad  enough  any 
time,  but  to  see  the  woman  who  was  with  him  when  he  was 
killed  —  impossible !  The  Senora  Marquesa  never  thinks 
of  such  things,  and  her  son  kept  her  sacred  from  them. 
Were  she  to  be  insulted  by  the  sight  of  such  as  you  — " 

"Don't  say  any  more,"  came  in  a  thick  sound. 

"She  would  have  you  removed  from  her  presence,"  he 
continued  evenly ;  "she  would  not  look  upon  you." 

A  blinding  rage  went  over  Elsie  and  gave  her  strength. 
Through  it  she  remembered  that  Arturo  had  said  he  had 
protected  her  from  his  man  by  making  him  suppose  she 
was  to  leave  El  Miradero  almost  at  once,  but  she  also 
remembered  that  Serafin  had  overheard  what  sort  of 
message  her  letter  to  Robert  had  carried.  Even  without 
this  latter  certainty  she  must  speak  the  truth  now  in 
defending  herself.  The  moment  was  too  soul-shaking  for 
anything  less,  however  wise,  and  it  carried  her  on  its 
rush,  defenseless,  desperate. 


The  Next  Corner  133 

"I'm  not  what  you  say !  You  know  I  am  not !"  While 
this  burst  from  her  frantically,  her  lips  trembled  in  en- 
treaty. "Don't  dare  to  say  I'm  not  fit  to  meet  this 
woman.  Her  son  loved  me.  You  know  it.  Don't  you?" 

He  gave  an  ironic  twitch  of  the  brows  and  shoulders 
and  let  its  meaning  sink  in.  "Why,  yes  —  sufficiently," 
he  answered,  meeting  her  shocked  stare  calmly,  and  added 
with  an  inference  that  smirched,  "Sufficiently  for  him  to 
have  had  you  here  with  him  —  that,  of  course."  After 
this  he  spoke  rapidly,  his  impatience  returning  till,  in 
effect,  it  was  what  he  would  have  used  to  an  exasperating 
beggar.  "You  cannot  be  under  the  same  roof  with  the 
Senora  Marquesa  —  not  for  a  moment.  It  would  be  not 
less  than  sacrilege.  It  would  kill  her  to  see  you."  He 
took  her  by  the  elbow  and  pushed  her  forward.  "There 
is  nothing  more  to  be  said." 

When  she  felt  the  touch  of  his  hand  on  her  flesh,  felt 
herself  moved  by  him  as  if  she  were  an  inanimate  obstacle, 
the  sense  that  something  monstrous  was  happening  to 
her  which  decency  compelled  her  to  resist  changed  Elsie 
to  a  storm  of  energy,  repulsion  and  dread  filling  her.  She 
managed  to  break  from  his  grip  and,  wheeling  back,  seized 
the  knob  of  the  door. 

Before  she  could  turn  it  he  bent  over  her,  his  powerful, 
swarthy  hands  closing  fast  on  both  of  hers  and  holding 
them  as  motionless  as  if  clamped.  Elsie  set  her  teeth,  a 
violence  that  held  her  brain  taut  until  it  seemed  at  break- 
ing point  going  into  her  clutch,  as  she  tried  to  keep  what 
advantage  she  had  gained.  They  bent  and  twisted  to- 
gether like  one  body,  yet  opposing  each  other,  her  hair 
slipping  to  full  freedom  and  sagging  against  her  face,  his 
breath  a  burning  as  he  pressed  down  upon  her. 

"If  you'd  explained  to  me  differently  —  kindly  —  I'd 
have  listened.  I'd  go  —  quietly.  But  you  to  drive  me 
out  —  insult  me?  Oh,  never  —  oh,  no,"  she  kept  mutter- 
ing, almost  voiceless.  "Oh,  no  —  oh,  no  — " 

And  yet  it  was  futile  from  the  first  second.  As  she 
spoke  the  words,  she  knew  she  would  be  conquered.  Those 


134  The  Next  Corner 

dark  hands,  as  tenacious  as  an  ape's,  seemed  to  have  hold 
not  only  on  both  _  of  her  own,  that  were  twined  and 
strained  around  the  knob,  but  on  her  very  life.  She  was 
afraid  of  him  there,  at  her  back,  unseen,  hideously  close 

—  and  then  —  she  screamed.     Her  hands   slackened  of 
themselves,  writhed  from  beneath  his,  flew  from  the  door, 
and  she  sank  against  the  wall  shuddering,  her  eyes  dis- 
tracted. 

He  had  kissed  her  on  the  neck. 

"You  —  you  beast  —  "  The  words  were  a  shattered 
whisper,  and  her  fingers  dragged  at  the  spot  where  his 
lips  had  fastened,  as  if  to  tear  it  away.  "You  hateful  — 
vile  — " 

As  she  looked  into  the  deep-set,  living  points  of  his 
eyes,  her  shoulders  drawn  up  in  nausea,  her  beauty  and 
exquisiteness  gone  into  disarray,  she  was  a  specter  of 
despair. 

"  'Necessity  knows  no  law.'  "  Serafin  said  this  cuttingly, 
his  breath  broken  and  hurried.  "Are  you  ready  to  go?" 

"If  you  don't  touch  me  —  "  fell  from  her  —  a  ghost's 
voice  out  of  a  maze,  her  look  a  demented  woman's  —  "if 

—  you  don't  touch  me  again !" 

Lasting  furrows  seemed  to  have  come  to  her  face  as, 
bent  forward,  jolted  by  crowding  sobs,  without  tears,  she 
went  heavily  before  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  SERVANT,  the  one  that  Elsie  had  not  seen  before,  had 
taken  away  her  luggage  and  she  was  ready  to  leave  El 
Miradero.  She  had  pulled  the  collar  of  her  cloak  to  its 
highest  so  that  it  half  hid  her  face,  her  gloved  hands 
clutched  each  other,  at  intervals  a  dry  spasm  closed  her 
throat.  With  leaden  shame  upon  her,  she  sat  in  her 
bedroom,  waiting,  as  Serafin  had  told  her  to  do. 

He  had  also  told  her  to  leave  behind  her  the  white  gown 
she  had  worn,  having  shown  her  that  the  gossamer  edges, 
brushed  by  the  stained  rug  when  at  the  first  she  had 
sought  to  kneel  by  Arturo's  body,  were  sprayed  with 
crimson.  Just  as  well,  Serafin  had  said,  that  it  was  not 
found  in  her  luggage  at  the  Customs ;  he  would  burn  it. 

She  had  obeyed  the  didactic  tones  without  uttering  a 
word ;  had  moved  in  a  sort  of  mental  dishevelment  where 
thought  of  what  she  was  to  do,  once  she  had  left  the 
mountains,  would  leap  up  only  as  a  lightning  question. 
When  he  brought  up  coffee  and  told  her  to  drink  it  to 
keep  up  her  strength  on  the  long  ride  in  the  chill  of  the 
early  morning,  she  had  done  so ;  and  when  he  had  placed 
a  package  in  her  bag,  telling  her  it  held  sandwiches  and 
she  was  to  eat  them  before  leaving  the  coach,  she  had 
listened  with  nervous  earnestness  to  his  words,  feeling  the 
need  of  any  advice  that  would  help  her,  yet  without  once 
letting  her  eyes  rest  upon  his  face. 

"You  will  find  the  motor  omnibus  waiting  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain,  all  ready  to  go  on  without  permitting 
any  delay  for  breakfast,  since  in  this  fog  that  has  come 
up  after  last  night's  rain  the  mule  coach  is  already  late," 
he  had  said. 

During  these  preparations  he  had  come  and  gone  with 
quick,  almost  soundless  steps,  his  easy  accomplishment  of 

135 


136  The  Next  Corner 

every  detail  reaching  Elsie  even  through  her  repudiation 
of  him.  When  he  said,  "Come,  niadame,"  she  rose  with- 
out change  of  expression,  with  the  automatic  obedience  of 
a  prisoner. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  one  of  the  unconquerable 
moments  seized  her,  seemed  to  sear  through  some  enamel 
encasing  her  nerves,  and  set  them  jumping  with  pain. 
She  stood  still,  a  desperate  figure,  and  gazed  across  the 
big  space  with  its  reminders  of  tragedy  to  the  curtains, 
beyond  which  was  Arturo's  room  and  the  bed  with  its 
clay-cold  burden.  To  look  upon  the  dead  face  would 
have  been  pain  beyond  enduring,  and  yet,  the  knowledge 
that,  had  she  wished  this,  it  would  not  have  been  per- 
mitted her,  was  a  slur  upon  her  sorrow.  Good-by  surged 
from  her  choked  heart  and  flowed  toward  the  spot  on 
which  her  bitter  gaze  was  fixed,  until,  aware  that 
Serafin  had  opened  the  balcony  door  and  was  looking  back 
at  her  with  a  scowl,  she  steeled  herself  and  followed  him 
out. 

It  was  after  four  o'clock.  Faint  daylight  was  harsh 
with  the  mountain  cold.  In  this  wan  hour  that  weakens 
even  the  strong  and  happy  a  wilting  consciousness  of  her 
depreciation  in  value  and  her  terrible  loneliness  went  over 
Elsie.  The  fog  of  which  Serafin  had  spoken  and  that 
made  a  cloud  bath  about  her  added  to  the  strangeness. 
It  choked  the  valleys ;  and  the  great  peaks,  with  the  first 
rays  traveling  down  them,  came  out  of  it  like  points  of 
dark  stone  pushing  through  cotton  wool.  In  moving 
along  the  veiled  paths  she  had  to  follow  Serafin  closely. 

"Fortunate,  after  all,"  she  heard  him  say  over  his 
shoulder,  "that  this  fog  is  keeping  back  the  mules,  or  you 
would  have  been  too  late.  Let  us  hurry  now." 

She  wanted  to  ask  why  they  were  going  so  fast  to  the 
road,  since  the  coach  was  not  yet  there;  could  not;  nor 
could  she  bring  herself  to  any  sort  of  speech  with  him. 
His  next  words  gave  the  reason: 

"We  are  going  down  the  mountain  a  half  mile  or  so, 
to  the  first  crossroad.  Your  luggage  is  already  there, 


The  Next  Corner  137 

and  there  you  will  get  on  the  coach,  so  it  will  be  thought 
you  have  come  up  from  some  house  on  that  side.  The 
driver  will  not  be  the  one  you  traveled  with  yesterday, 
and  he  will  not  associate  you  in  any  way  with  El  Mira- 
dero.  He  is  generally  stupid  and  sleepy,  and  if  you  are 
careful  will  pay  no  attention  to  you.  Try  not  to  speak 
at  all  while  in  the  coach,  so  he  will  not  be  sure  that  you 
are  a  foreigner,  and  when  other  people  get  in,  sit  quietly 
with  your  veil  down.  Remember  all  I  am  saying  to  you, 
madame,"  he  said  in  a  sudden  forceful  and  cold  conclu- 
sion. "Once  it  is  known  what  has  happened  here,  it  will 
be  well  indeed  for  you  to  have  caused  no  notice  and  to 
be  out  of  Spain.  Do  not  — " 

The  words  broke.  Serafin  came  to  a  quivering  stop. 
"Wait !"  he  said,  his  head  lifted,  listening. 

They  stood  in  silence,  the  vapor  a  moving  curtain  be- 
tween them,  and  through  it  from  the  road  where  it  rose 
beyond  El  Miradero,  a  mixed  sound  gradually  separated 
into  meaning,  —  a  nearing  rumble,  the  ring  of  horses' 
hoofs,  a  voice  on  a  high  distracted  note. 

"Too  late !  —  I  must  go  back  —  be  on  hand  to  receive 
them."  He  muttered  this  with  desperation  while  with  un- 
conscious force  he  took  Elsie  by  the  arm  and  pulled  her 
toward  the  garden.  She  had  never  seen  him  so  unstrung 
by  feeling.  Even  in  the  first  dreadful  moment  beside  Ar- 
turo's  body  he  had  not  lost  command  of  himself  as  he  did 
now.  His  mouth  jerked,  his  hands  moved  wildly  as  he 
drew  her  to  a  place  under  the  balcony  where  a  vine-hung 
partition  made  a  shelter. 

"Wait  here,  and  keep  out  of  sight  until  I  return,"  he 
stammered,  and  disappeared. 

Elsie  remained  motionless.  She  felt  sure  that  only  the 
coming  of  the  police  could  have  produced  Serafin's  look 
of  panic.  She  learned  differently  when  out  of  the  faintly 
luminous  fog  an  old-fashioned  barouche,  drawn  by  a  pair 
of  huge  draft  horses  as  cumbersome  as  itself,  was  re- 
vealed; it  lumbered  to  the  door  only  a  few  ^ards  from  her 
and  she  saw  two  black-robed  women  in  it. 


138  The  Next  Corner 

The  mother,  the  sister !  —  for  the  moment  forgotten 
by  her.  It  was  their  coming  that  had  made  a  trembling 
servant  of  the  steel-nerved  Serafin,  representing  as  they 
did  a  worship  as  vitally  a  part  of  him  as  his  blood.  With 
this  thought  Elsie's  weight  of  abasement  took  on  a  razor 
edge.  The  mother,  the  sister,  —  and  she  there,  in  hiding ! 

Since  life  with  Arturo  as  her  lover  had  not  begun,  her 
own  knowledge  of  her  physical  impeccancy  had,  in  one 
way,  annulled  what  had  been  her  intention;  in  one  way 
the  shots  that  had  taken  Arturo's  life  had  made  her,  to 
herself,  scarcely  different  from  what  she  had  been  in 
Paris,  —  a  rebel,  loving  secretly,  whose  daring  had  gone 
no  farther  than  her  thoughts  and  her  lover's  despairing 
kisses.  And  yet  in  another  way,  that  she  saw  now  made 
the  scales  by  which  she  was  to  be  rated,  she  could  not 
escape  from  what  she  had  meant  to  do,  from  the  intention 
set  forth  clearly  and  finally  in  her  letter,  and  by  which 
she  became,  in  status,  Arturo's  mistress.  Her  body 
sickened  at  her  plight  while  this  knowledge  bit  in,  while 
she  watched  the  women  who  must  not  see  her. 

Both  wore  mourning  for  Arturo's  father,  who  had  died 
several  years  before;  the  sister,  gravely  moving  and  nun- 
like;  the  mother  with  waxen,  high-nosed  face,  her  black 
eyes  staring  from  between  the  folds  of  crepe  that  rose 
above  her  in  a  canopy.  As  Serafin  helped  them  to  the 
steps,  their  bewildered  questions,  clinkingly  distinct 
through  the  fine  still  air,  changed  at  his  reply  into  a 
wail  for  the  dead,  as  all  stood  fixed,  with  lifted  faces,  and 
crossed  themselves.  Then  bent  forward,  swaying,  the 
women  who  had  loved  Arturo  entered  his  home. 

A  moment's  deep  silence  followed.  Elsie  waited,  lean- 
ing heavily  against  the  lattice.  In  her  fancy  she  saw 
them  going  past  the  ghastly  patch  where  the  crimson 
cried  out  to  them  as  a  mouth  —  followed  them  to  the  hall 
beyond  —  to  the  white  bed  where  the  great  Stillness 
was. 

And  there  their  anguish  found  voice.  Through  the  open 
window  that  was  but  a  little  way  above  her,  just  around 
ihe  corner  of  the  house,  the  grief  that  she  had  been  forced 


The  Next  Corner  139 

to  keep  dumb  in  herself  swept  down  to  her  in  the  weeping 
of  strangers.  Listening,  her  face  gripped  in  her  hands, 
she,  too,  let  the  sobs  shatter  her. 

"Dead !  —  Ay-el  Ay-ei  —  Oh,  Arturo !  —  Oh,  mother, 
our  poor  mother?  — "  She  heard  a  voice  cry  out  in  frantic 
unbelief. 

"Arturito!"  followed  on  the  thin,  shaken  notes  of  the 
old.  "Ah,  let  me  hold  him!  —  Dios,  Dios!  —  Ah,  my 
heart,  my  life,  thou  beautiful  one,  my  little  son  —  Ar- 
turito! Without  thee?  —  ay,  de  mi!  —  without  thee?" 
.  .  .  And  this  question  on  a  rising  scream  was  like  the 
death  agony  of  some  jungle  creature. 

So,  the  bluest  blood  —  the  thin  stream  of  the  sacred 
sangre  azul  —  had  no  other  voice  for  pain  like  this  than 
that  of  the  peasants*  red  and  plenteous  stream;  called 
vainly  to  heaven  on  the  same  key.  No  need  for  Elsie  to 
understand  the  words  to  know  they  voiced  the  insensate 
loss  that  can  turn  life  over  as  a  bowl,  emptied. 

"Without  thee?"  the  mother  wailed.  And  so  Elsie's 
heart  cried,  too,  —  one  vast,  blind  question.  How  could 
she  bear  it?  How  live?  .  .  . 

"Come  at  once.  Quietly!"  was  whispered  at  her  side, 
and  through  her  blinding  tears  she  saw  Serafin.  He  was 
not  the  despot  who  had  controlled  her  before.  His  face 
was  pensive;  moisture  had  softened  his  queer  eyes.  He 
went  ahead  swiftly,  with  a  silent  tread  and  without  a 
look  at  her  until,  after  five  minutes'  walk  down-hill,  he 
turned  and  pointed  to  the  outlines  of  her  trunk  and 
valises  showing  against  the  trees. 

"This  is  the  place.  The  coach  can't  be  long  now.  I 
have  told  you  what  to  do,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  his 
former  authority  through  the  hush  that  had  come  upon 
him. 

With  no  sign  of  having  heard  him,  Elsie  sat  down  on 
the  trunk,  her  elbow  sinking  heavily  in  weakness  to  the 
bags  upon  it. 

"If  you  follow  carefully  what  I  have  said,  you  will  have 
no  trouble.  Wait  here." 


140  The  Next  Corner 

Without  a  word  of  farewell  he  gave  a  curt  lift  to  his 
hat  and  left  her,  lost  quickly  in  the  mist  around  the  road's 
turn.  As  suddenly  he  appeared  again. 

"I  came  back  to  say  that  I  can  understand  how  you 
feel  you  have  cause  to  think  of  me  as  your  enemy,"  he 
said  in  a  quick,  uneven  tone,  as  if  urged  to  speak  by  some 
feeling  that  mastered  him.  "And  you  are  right.  I  have 
been  your  enemy  since  the  day  in  Paris  when  you  showed 
me  great  cruelty  for  my  mistake.  You  would  not  see 
me  as  the  Senor  Marquesas  foster  brother  and  an  edu- 
cated man,  who  had  for  a  moment  lost  his  head.  /  No ! 
Because  I  served  one  to  whom  I  was  deeply  attached  — 
although  except  for  his  family  there  is  no  other  creature 
on  the  earth  that  I  would  serve  in  the  same  way  —  I  was 
to  you  a  servant  only.  You  have  never  looked  at  or 
spoken  to  me  as  anything  else.  You  therefore  see  now 
how  one  can  be  made  to  pay  for  unkindness,  for  had  you 
been  a  little  merciful  to  me,  I  would  not  have  allowed 
you  to  come  up  to  El  Miradero  without  Mrs.  Vrain. 
Have  I  made  myself  quite  clear?" 

While  he  was  speaking,  the  memory  of  her  struggle 
with  him  outside  Arturo's  door  and  his  insult  there  burned 
fiercely  again  in  Elsie,  and  through  her  wretched- 
ness she  also  noticed  sharply  that  he  had  ceased  to  use 
his  deferential  "madame."  She  had  no  wish  to  reply  to 
him.  And  she  knew,  as  women  do  know  these  things,  that 
her  silence  would  gall  him,  while  the  most  disparaging 
thing  she  could  say  would  brush  over  him  without  effect. 
She  had  not  been  looking  at  him;  now  she  turned  her 
shoulder  fully  on  him  and  gazed  ahead  through  the  fog. 

"I  see,"  he  cried  out  as  if  amused.  "Not  worth  your 
attention?  Still  a  servant?  Have  it  so!  This  would  be 
something  to  offend  me  more  if  you  had  any  of  my  re- 
spect. But  you  have  not.  Nevertheless  I  will  make  a 
proposition  to  you,"  he  continued  in  an  unctuously  silky 
way  through  which  the  intentional  gibe  was  plain,  "one 
that  I  always  meant  to  express  after  the  marques  had 
*ired  of  you  —  providing,  of  course,  you  retained  your 


The  Next  Corner  141 

beauty,  which  happens  to  be  of  a  sort  to  appeal  powerfully 
to  me  —  that  I  would  be  willing  to  assume  his  responsi- 
bility toward  you.  You  understand?" 

She  gave  no  sign. 

"In  accepting,  you  would  have  to  live  very  humbly  and 
in  my  class.  But  as  by  your  own  written  confession  you 
are  exposed  to  your  husband  for  what  you  are  —  a  stu- 
pidly quixotic  thing  to  have  done,  by  the  way,  although 
quite  American  —  and  as  after  this  catastrophe  you  are 
stranded,  with  nothing  at  all  ahead  of  you  except  the 
precarious  career  of  a  cocotte,  you  will  be  very  sensible 
if  you  consider  my  offer  seriously.  Not  always  is  a 
woman  of  your  sort  given  such  swift  opportunity  to  ar- 
range herself  after  the  loss  of  her  man.  Often  there  are 
long  intervals  between  lovers,  when  she  can  come  close 
to  absolute  penury.  So  what  do  you  say?  If  you  will 
have  me,  I  am  willing  to  take  you  on.  And,  if  so,  you 
can  wait  for  me  at  some  place  in  France  —  Bordeaux 
would  be  best,  as  it's  of  good  size  and  you  would  stand 
less  chance  of  being  noticed.  I  would  surely  join  you 
within  ten  days." 

As  this  last  and  deadly  slur  grew  plain  to  Elsie,  black- 
ness spread  before  her  fixed  eyes,  while  with  overpowering 
consciousness  she  felt  that  having  heard  those  words,  her 
soul  was  smeared  and  seared  with  vileness  forever;  that 
inwardly  she  would  be  as  changed  as  she  would  have  been 
outwardly,  if  in  some  disaster  she  had  lost  arms  or  legs. 
For  as  long  as  she  lived  she  knew  she  would  have  to  fight 
to  forget  this  befouling  thing. 

Not  by  the  slightest  movement  or  half  glance  did  she 
betray  this,  holding  with  shut  teeth  to  immobility  and 
silence.  The  shudder  that  she  could  not  control  —  the 
horror  that  held  her  up,  rigid,  for  many  seconds,  and 
then  released  her  so  sharply  that  she  sank  still  lower  over 
the  bags  —  sufficiently  appeased  Serafin's  implacable 
grudge. 

"You  refuse?"  he  asked,  laughed,  a  regret  that  was 
mockery  in  his  rather  high,  clinking  voice.  "Ah,  well,  I 


142  The  Next  Corner 

had  little  hope,  I  must  confess.  And  perhaps  it  is  all 
for  the  best,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  No  doubt  I'll  be 
spared  a  good  deal  of  irritation,  for  I  understand  you 
so  thoroughly.  Women  like  you,  living  for  fashion  and 
excitement,  are  useless  in  any  good  way.  You  have  the 
little  hearts  of  cats.  And  what  do  you  do  with  the  men 
who  love  you  and  trust  you?  You  get  them  in  your  claws 
—  you  eat  up  their  lives  —  you  betray  them.  So,  when 
you  try  to  insult  me,  I  tell  you  you  cannot,  for  you  are 
nothing  —  of  no  value  in  the  world  at  all  —  you,  with 
your  little  heart  of  a  cat !" 

The  fog  had  taken  him  again.  This  time  he  was  gone 
and  would  not  return.  Still  he  seemed  there ;  for  his 
dreadful  words  stayed.  And  while  Elsie  resisted  them, 
a  sense  of  outrage  choking  her,  the  thought  that  her  own 
act  had  made  such  dishonor  possible  was  unbearable.  For 
a  moment  her  surroundings  faded,  and  she  saw  herself  as 
the  woman  she  had  been  long,  long  ago,  it  seemed  now  — 
ah,  how  long !  —  living  in  a  simple  place  of  peace,  her 
baby  on  her  knees,  its  satin  fingers  clutching  hers  in 
wonder,  she  crooning  to  it  in  a  welter  of  pure  adoration. 

When  an  eagle  screeched  above  her  and  sped  through 
the  gloom,  its  darting  shadow  and  her  own  heart,  knock- 
ing, seemed  the  only  life  in  the  void.  And  when,  following 
this,  sounds  came,  they  did  not  help  her,  for  through  the 
muffling  haze  she  heard  only  the  coach  driver's  cry  and 
the  clanking  of  the  harness  bells,  just  as  she  had  heard 
them  yesterday.  Yesterday!  —  when  she  was  waited  for 
with  longing,  received  with  homage.  Like  the  other  mem- 
ory, that,  too,  seemed  remote,  distant  a  stretch  of  years 
from  this  forlorn  departure.  She  bent  over  slackly,  as  if 
she  were  old.  Her  face  had  the  look  of  the  lost. 

And  this  was  what  it  meant  to  be  a  mistress!  To  be 
adored,  guarded  in  a  man's  arms,  to  feel  that  his  absorb- 
ing love  was  all  that  he  wanted  of  life,  that  without  you 
the  world  was  empty  for  him,  —  and  then,  once  the  breath 
was  out  of  his  body,  to  be  made  to  taste  shame  with  your 
sorrow;  to  have  no  right  to  cling  to  the  dead,  no  right 


The  Next  Corner  143 

even  to  stay  near,  no  right  to  tears  through  which  at 
last  would  come  some  touch  of  gentle  healing.  To  become 
something  that  did  not  fit  in  anywhere,  something  not 
wanted,  —  a  nuisance.  To  be  dragged  away  by  dark, 
tendony,  cruel  hands  so  that  the  eyes  of  pure  women 
might  not  see  you,  and  to  be  flung  out,  bundled  out  — 
anywhere  —  anywhere  —  only  go  you  must ! 

The  horrible  sadness  of  the  pariah  who  looks  through 
chinks  at  the  life  of  the  normal,  —  she  knew  it.  One  must 
have  caste  to  live  at  all.  To  be  labelled  declassee  was  to 
be  already  dead. 

These  were  her  thoughts  as  she  tumbled  into  the  coach, 
heard  the  man  fling  in  her  trunks  and  bags  with  fury  as 
if  he  hated  them,  and  resume  his  directing  cry  as  he  ran 
ahead  beside  the  string  of  mules:  "Arre!  Mulo!" 

She  could  cover  her  twisting  face  with  her  hands. 
There  was  no  one  to  see. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

"Parlez  doucement!     La  malade  dort  encore." 

Some  one  was  speaking  French?  Elsie's  eyes  opened 
and  she  listened. 

"Je  ne  veux  pas  la  revettler.     Revenez  plus  tard" 

"Bien,  ma  soeur." 

Yes,  they  were  speaking  French.  The  voices  were  back 
of  her;  they  faded  away,  together  with  the  sound  of 
softly  shod  feet,  and  no  one  seemed  near  her.  She  re- 
mained in  an  acute  sort  of  silence,  while  with  the  mild, 
slow  gaze  of  weakness  she  took  in  details  surrounding  her. 

The  bed  on  which  she  lay  was  small  in  what  seemed, 
from  an  angle  of  it  that  she  could  see  beyond  a  screen, 
a  very  large  room.  There  were  other  beds  in  it,  small 
like  hers.  There  was  a  tall  window  with  square  panes 
that  glistened,  a  half  curtain  like  a  starched  muslin  petti- 
coat bulging  across  it.  A  briny  smell  that  she  could  not 
name,  yet  knew  had  some  cleansing  quality,  filled  the  air. 
From  without  she  heard  the  murmurs  of  a  town,  silences 
between  them  that  belong  to  the  day's  halting  start. 

A  shadow  went  like  a  great  tongue  up  the  plastered 
wall,  wavered  there  a  moment,  and  a  nun  came  around 
the  screen.  Black  and  white  like  a  charcoal  outline  on 
ivory  —  cool-lipped,  bloodless  face  with  tranquil  eyes ; 
black  robes ;  high,  fluted  white  coif  —  she  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  and  smiled  at  Elsie. 

"Bon  jour,  ma  file.  Having  said  it  was  better  that 
you  miss  your  medicine  and  sleep  on,  you  have,  yourself 
awakened,"  she  murmured,  and  moved  in  a  silent  way  that 
was  purposeful  and  exquisitely  graceful  to  the  free  side 
of  the  bed  where  she  seated  herself  and  laid  an  efficient 
hand,  cool  as  snowflakes,  on  the  patient's  brow,  so 

144 


The  Next  Corner  145 

thoughtful  now  with  every  honey-colored  hair  brushed 
back.  "What  would  you  have,  ma  file?" 

"A  glass  of  water,  ma  soeur,  if  you  please." 

After  this  was  drained,  Elsie  remained  on  her  elbow 
and  looked  with  love  at  this  woman  who  on  the  instant 
had  conveyed  the  sympathy  and  helpfulness  of  a  friend. 
"I  am  in  Spain,  and  yet,  this  —  French — ?"  she  said 
weakly  with  drawn  brows. 

"No.     You  are  in  France,  my  child." 

"France?"     A  breath  of  wonder,  a  helpless  look. 

"In  Bordeaux  and  in  the  Hospice  de  la  Bonne  Mere. 
Now,  lean  back.  Don't  try  to  think  at  all,  and  I  will 
clear  away  some  of  what  puzzles  you.  On  a  train  belong- 
ing to  a  branch  line  that  goes  from  here  to  Blanquefort, 
you  were  taken  ill.  You  fainted,  my  dear.  And  so,  as 
soon  as  possible,  they  transferred  you  to  a  train  coming 
back  to  Bordeaux,  that  you  might  be  cared  for  here. 
That  was  three  days  ago,  and  you  have  been  doing  well. 
The  syncope  would  almost  break,  you  would  sleep  fever- 
ishly for  awhile  only  to  sink  again  into  unconsciousness. 
Last  night  you  slept  naturally,  and  this  morning  the 
fever  is  practically  gone.  Now  you  will  get  well  fast. 
All  you  need  is  to  rest,  for  you  are  very  unstrung.  Rest, 
and  light  food,  and  soon  —  a  week  or  so  —  you  can-  con- 
tinue to  wherever  you  were  going.  Meanwhile,  you  will 
want  your  family  or  friends  to  be  notified,  of  course." 

As  the  nun  was  speaking,  the  truth  in  bits  had  found 
its  way  to  Elsie.  Some  black,  some  red  as  blood  —  no,  red 
with  blood  —  they  fitted  one  jagged  edge  to  another  as 
do  the  portions  of  a  dissected  map.  And  to  this  knowl- 
edge two  of  the  phrases  just  heard  were  joined:  "Soon 
you  can  continue  to  wherever  you  were  going.  —  You 
will  want  your  family  or  friends  to  be  notified,  of  course." 
Where  had  she  been  going?  She  was  not  sure  —  or 
where  she  wished  to  go.  Family?  Friends?  She  could 
see  none.  She  was  alone. 

When  the  nun  had  gone  away  to  bring  her  some  food, 
Elsie  lay  back  among  the  pillows,  and  while  weakness 


146  The  Next  Corner 

seemed  pulling  her  down  through  the  bed  with  the  suction 
of  a  quicksand,  she  set  herself  to  look  back  and  look  for- 
ward, to  see  with  some  clearness  what  she  must  do. 

The  happenings  of  the  night  at  El  Miradero  came  down 
upon  her:  all  its  mixed  terror  and  grief;  her  humiliating 
departure  from  it;  the  never-to-be-forgotten  defilement  of 
Serafin's  last  words ;  the  ride  almost  in  utter  solitude 
down  that  dreadful  mountain  through  the  cloud  bath, 
the  driver  guiding  the  wabbling  mules  on  brinks  of  tor- 
rents and  across  the  brows  of  precipices  with  the  fog 
sense  of  a  London  policeman. 

A  misted  recollection  followed  in  which  she  saw  herself 
getting  on  and  off  trains,  while  a  grinding  ache  at  the 
lower  part  of  her  head  kept  growing  until  it  became 
frightening.  Her  last  clear  memory  was  of  a  large  sta- 
tion, no  doubt  Bordeaux,  and  where,  in  error  because  of 
the  now  enwrapping  pain,  she  must  have  changed  to  a 
local  line  instead  of  to  the  one  that  would  have  carried 
her  to  Paris. 

After  this,  her  dreams  in  the  hospital  filtered  back  to 
her.  They  had  tortured  her  during  the  intervals  of  fever- 
ish sleep  of  which  the  nun  had  spoken.  In  them  she  was 
always  in  a  wilderness,  in  vast,  high  solitudes.  She  had 
heard  water  falling,  falling,  winds  tossing  branches ;  had 
seen  shadows  made  by  the  dying  moon  tremble  on  the 
great  mountains.  She  was  alone  always,  and  always  seek- 
ing some  one,  —  Arturo  first ;  and  he  had  never  answered 
her  call  or  shown  his  face.  Neither  had  her  mother  come, 
nor  Aunt  Esther,  nor  Paula  Vrain,  nor  Julie.  She  had 
never  called  for  Robert ;  had  always  a  child's  panic 
that,  instead  of  the  others,  hearing  her  voice  he  might  ap- 
pear. But  he  had  not.  No  one  had  come.  No  human 
face  had  showed  between  her  and  the  leering  moon  that 
also  had  seemed  running  from  her;  and  no  human  sound 
had  broken  that  stillness. 

Through  the  rest  of  the  day,  as  she  submitted  to  the 
gentle  care  that  made  her  bed  cool  and  smooth,  an  oasis  of 
peace,  she  was  content  to  be  silent,  lying  mostly  with  eyes 


The  Next  Corner  147 

shut,  her  fingers  stirring  at  times,  and  at  times  a  nervous 
spasm  contracting  her  spine.  Her  thoughts  made  a 
teeming  world.  Confusing  images  came  and  went  there. 
In  it  she  kept  constantly  seeing  the  irremediable  past; 
constantly  turning  from  it  to  find  she  faced  —  nothing. 
Or  she  seemed  struggling  to  get  through  a  stone  wall  to 
some  future  where  she  could  save  herself.  She  would  set 
her  teeth  desperately,  focussing  on  this  thought.  There 
must  be  some  goal  for  her  if  she  could  find  it,  and  it  must 
not  be  too  distant,  for  she  was  weak  of  spirit  and  body. 
Unconsciously  she  was  seeking  some  one  whom  she  had 
not  hurt,  and  whose  devotion  would  always  be  hers  with- 
out question  or  reproach. 

Her  intimates  in  Paris  had  not  been  friends;  Paula 
Vrain  was  a  sample  of  them.  Her  mother,  as  practical 
as  the  multiplication  table  and  self-engrossed,  would  be 
her  exasperated  critic.  Robert  did  not  appear  even  on 
the  fleetest  thought,  —  gone  forever.  And  then ;  through 
this  shifting  cloud  of  useless  ghosts,  she  saw  Julie. 

Many  sweet  things  of  this  woman  who  had  served  her 
stole  to  her  memory  and  freshened  it  as  if  flowers  had  just 
been  placed  beside  her  bed.  Her  care  in  small  illnesses 
during  three  years,  her  unfailing  cheerfulness,  admira- 
tion, defensive  loyalty.  Julie,  with  her  little,  hard,  dark 
face  and  the  hard,  dark  eyes  that  always  grew  kind  when 
they  looked  at  her  —  ah,  she  would  welcome  her  back ! 
To  Julie  she  could  open  her  heart ;  Julie  would  take  her 
poor,  slack  hand,  tell  her  what  to  do ;  her  future  no  longer 
trembled  over  an  empty  gulf  nor  was  she  a  wraith  swing- 
ing on  its  edge.  There  was  Julie. 

As  this  feeling  grew  stronger,  a  rill  of  hope  would  try 
to  rise  through  her  weakness  only  to  be  dammed  by  the 
opposing  thought  that,  plan  and  strive  as  she  might  for 
herself,  Arturo  was  no  longer  among  the  living  — -  never- 
more to  be  seen  upon  this  earth.  Oh,  inconceivable! 
Heart-stilling  .  .  .  !  Of  a  sudden  she  would  feel  herself, 
as  before,  the  smallest  thing  in  that  Grasp  under  which 
the  strongest  must  break  and  run  like  sand.  And  with 


148  The  Next  Corner 

this,  life  would  spread  before  her  again  in  the  different, 
unhappy  aspects  that  had  dogged  her,  —  the  blinding 
question  mark,  the  stone  wall,  the  empty  gulf. 

Nevertheless,  after  these  slips  into  unavailing  grief, 
the  thought  of  Julie  would  return  and  help  her.  Pictures 
of  cosy  and  intimate  things,  the  sort  that  have  a  powerful 
appeal  for  women,  would  come  to  her  in  a  floating,  inter- 
lapping  way :  The  hospital  ward  became  her  own  room  on 
the  Rue  de  Chaillot,  and  there  was  Julie,  her  arms  full 
of  dewy  narcissi  or  purple  iris  from  the  Madeleine  market, 
pausing  to  see  if  she  still  slept.  Now  she  was  stepping 
softly  through  the  shadow  to  open  the  persiennes  a  little 
way  to  the  morning  sunlight  and  coming  back  to  smile  at 
her.  "Have  you  slept  well,  cliere  madame?"  she  heard 
her  say.  The  water  was  running  in  her  bath,  the  breath 
of  verveine  was  stealing  through  the  half-open  door,  and 
Julie  was  calling  to  her.  —  When,  cool,  tingling,  pow- 
dered and  verbena-scented,  she  had  crept  back  to  the  big 
bed,  there  was  Julie  again,  this  time  with  a  tray  that  held 
coffee  and  croissants,  her  letters  and  Le  Matin. 

So  it  went,  until,  with  Julie,  a  longing  came  to  Elsie 
for  Paris,  too.  Not  for  the  Paris  she  had  known,  — 
never  that  again,  of  course ;  yet  still  for  the  city  that  she 
had  loved  and  would  love  forever,  in  some  poor  corner  of 
which,  beside  this  helper,  she  could  hide  and  think,  and  at 
last  take  her  first  steps  in  some  new  life. 

Julie.  Paris.  She  fell  asleep  that  night  holding  these 
names  to  her ;  tried  to  see  only  them,  clear  of  the  shifting 
darknesses  that  sought  to  intrude  about  them  as  a  frame. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

IT  was  amazing  to  Elsie  to  feel  what  strength  had  come 
to  her  after  a  week  in  Julie's  home.  This  was  far  from 
the  modish  and  verdured  spaces  on  the  right  side  of  the 
Seine  where  she  had  lived.  It  was  a  nest  tucked  under 
the  notched  eaves  of  an  old  house  near  the  Luxembourg, 
once  a  great  mansion,  now  a  beehive  of  poor  people. 

During  these  days  she  had  been  treated  with  the  loving 
sort  of  authority  with  which  Julie  would  have  handled  her 
own  babe  in  swaddling  clothes.  Morning  engagements 
for  work  were  suspended  so  that  she  could  bathe,  feed  and 
fuss  about  Elsie,  win  her  from  brooding,  interest  her  in 
the  little  things  about  her,  —  in  the  parrakeet  that  a 
sailor  brother  had  brought  from  French  Guiana ;  the  fat, 
drowsing  cat  with  glowing  coat  that  is  such  an  important 
fireside  item  in  nearly  every  bourgeois  home  in  France; 
the  flower  pots  on  the  balcony;  the  street  musicians  who 
straggled  at  times  into  the  reverberating  courtyard  far 
below. 

She  had  heard  the  whole  of  Elsie's  story  the  first  night, 
had  let  her  relieve  her  heart  of  its  weight,  and  then  had 
commanded  silence  about  it.  Not  a  word,  not  a  look 
back !  The  visit  to  El  Miradero  was  to  be  as  if  it  had 
not  been  until  such  time  as  its  consequences  could  be 
faced  by  them  both  and  their  bearing  on  the  future  light- 
ened in  some  way  by  the  wise  counsel  of  the  very  wise 
Julie. 

Elsie  had  been  as  an  obedient  child  and  had  risen  every 
morning  revived  and  cool  from  nights  of  the  most  healing 
sleep.  Sometimes  she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  a  flower 
struggling  back  to  freshness  in  a  bright  vacuum,  so 
separated  was  she  from  every  impression  that  heretofore 

149 


150  The  Next  Corner 

had  meant  life  for  her.  On  the  day  that  Julie  first  heard 
Elsie  laugh  —  really  laugh  out  —  at  one  of  her  drolleries, 
she  felt  as  gay  as  if,  at  last,  she  had  drawn  the  winning 
number  in  the  lottery. 

They  had  been  talking  of  Julie's  husband.  He  had 
resented  being  driven  to  take  a  room  with  a  friend  in 
order  to  make  way  for  Elsie,  and  had  departed  the  first 
night  in  a  towering  rage,  his  roars  of  farewell  crossed  by 
Julie's  shrill  anger  and  laughs. 

"A  week  —  and  Raymond  has  not  come  to  see  you," 
Elsie  had'  said,  as  Julie  brushed  her  hair.  "I'm  sorry! 
My  coming  into  your  home  this  way  — " 

"Tiens!"  Julie  had  broken  in  mockingly  between  her 
strokes  on  the  pale  floss  that  hung  on  the  air  like  a  web, 
and  had  bent  over  to  pat  Elsie's  cheek  with  her  fore- 
finger. "You  do  not  understand  Raymond  and  me,  ma 
petite.  Coming  in  here  as  you  did  and  getting  us  excited 
was  of  the  greatest  help  to  us.  You  see  we  were  getting 
so  dull  —  oh,  my  God,  so  polite!  Nothing  had  happened 
for  weeks  to  make  the  air  go  whirr  about  us  at  all.  Ouf 
—  it  was  terrible!  It  is  not  healthy  for  married  people 
to  have  all  the  time  one  big  grin  on  the  face  and  be  all 
the  time  amiable,  madame.  I  began  to  see  how  Raymond 
was  heavy,  and  how  his  hair  was  left  now  to  get  long  and 
bushy  and  dusty  —  and  when  he  would  fall  asleep  over 
the  paper  and  snore,  I  —  I  —  hated  him !  It  was  like 
that  with  him  too.  Oh,  I  could  tell  how  he  was  seeing  that 
I  was  not  so  young  any  more !  In  fact  we  were  yawning 
in  each  other's  faces  —  and  then  you  came !  —  and  Ray- 
mond cursed  that  I  cared  for  a  stranger  more  than  for 
him  —  and  he  cast  me  off  —  and  I  told  him  to  go  and 
never  dare  to  show  his  pig  face  here  again  if  he  knew 
what  was  good  for  him.  So  now,"  Julie  had  said  with  a 
hushed  delight,  "all  is  so  well  again  —  for,  let  me  tell 
you  — "  and  her  voice  dripped  with  a  rich  content,  "when 
I  came  in  from  the  market  at  his  lunch  hour  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  him  down  in  the  courtyard,  behind  one  of  the 
big  doors,  watching  for  me.  Well,  ma  chere,  as  he  peeped 


The  Next  Corner  151 

out  at  me  he  looked  —  handsome !  He  had  his  hair  cut 
most  beautifully  and  a  big  bouquet  was  in  his  buttonhole. 
It  was  all  I  could  do  not  to  drop  the  things  and  embrace 
him  on  the  spot.  But,  not  yet,"  Julie  had  decided  in  the 
compressed  tone  of  one  who  scrutinizes  a  knot  to  unravel 
it.  "Let  him  dress  up  a  little  more  —  it  will  do  him 
good !" 

It  was  then  that  Elsie  had  laughed  out. 

And  after  the  surprising  thing  happened,  the  smile 
went  sharply  from  her  face,  a  dead  calm  came  upon  her 
that  centered  in  a  gaze  on  the  triangle  of  Paris  sky  be- 
yond the  slanted  window  in  the  roof.  That  laugh  —  the 
amazement  that  she  could  laugh  —  had  swept  ghosts 
about  her.  They  rose  up  in  the  plain  of  desolation  that 
was  now  her  life.  Arturo  was  clearest:  On  the  balcony 
at  El  Miradero  he  held  her  to  him,  the  black  and  white 
splendor  of  the  mountains  about  them,  the  light  from  the 
dying  moon  on  his  face.  His  veiled  glance  with  light 
through  the  lashes,  as  through  the  shutters  of  his  soul, 
drank  her  in.  His  kiss  of  desire  pulled  up  her  heart,  the 
pain  that  belongs  to  ecstasy  in  it.  She  heard  his  words : 
"Never  shall  we  part  —  never,  never  !"  And,  in  a  moment 
it  seemed,  he  was  dead.  He  was  lying  twisted  over  the 
chair,  the  red  square  was  spreading  upon  his  breast,  and 
the  light  had  left  his  eyes,  all  sound  his  lips !  —  That 
which  had  meant  him  was  not  there  at  all.  .  .  . 

And  Chance  had  done  this.  The  Destiny,  of  which  the 
fatalist  in  Arturo  had  so  often  spoken,  had  swooped  from 
space  as  a  monstrous  hand  and  in  an  instant  had  swept 
him  out  of  the  world  he  loved.  On  her  its  fall  had  been 
lighter;  belittled,  abject,  it  had  permitted  her  to  live. 
Yes,  the  great  paw  that  had  blurred  all  the  print  on  her 
page  of  life  had  left  her  legible  below  it  as  an  ironic  foot- 
note in  small  type. 

She  stood  up  sharply  and  moved  away  from  Julie.  For 
some  seconds  she  remained  like  an  animal  stupidly  dis- 
mayed. 

"Ah,  what  has  seized  you?"  Julie  asked,  and  shot  an 


152  The  Next  Corner 

arm  about  her.    "Ma  cherie,  do  not  undo  all  the  good  by 
thinking  of  things  — " 

"It  is  time !"  Elsie  came  out  of  the  hush.  She  put  Julie 
from  her  gently  and  took  a  few  steps  up  and  down. 
"Thoughts  are  coming  back  very  clearly.  They  seem 
stepping  before  me,  in  my  path,  rounding  me  up  with 
questions  —  and  they  crush  me !" 

"Very  well.  Here !  —  I  will  pin  your  hair  —  so  !  — 
and  now  we  will  sit  down  by  the  table  and  go  over  it  all." 

Perhaps  in  no  country  but  France  could  a  working- 
woman  of  Julie's  type  —  one  who  was  a  poor  speller  and 
wrote  a  hand  like  a  six-year-old  child  —  have  been  able 
to  bring  a  many-sided  and  alert  intelligence  to  a  situa- 
tion like  this  as  well  as  the  imagination  to  feel  all  its 
subtleties. 

At  the  first  news  of  Arturo's  fate  from  Elsie  she  had 
shed  a  few  of  her  difficult  tears  for  him.  He  had  been 
winning  to  her  by  reason  of  his  princely  beauty ;  she  had 
seen  him  sought  after  in  a  way  to  have  spoiled  most  men 
and  that  had  not  spoiled  him ;  had  known  how  exultantly 
he  had  loved  life  and  women  in  the  Paris  brightness ;  and 
his  murder  had  been  like  the  savage  cutting  down  of  a 
young  tree  in  fresh  blossom.  But  he  was  gone;  never 
more  would  he  make  perplexity  in  her  young  mistress's 
life.  And  instead  there  was  left  something  of  a  fatal 
gravity  that  had  to  do  with  breathing  flesh  and  blood, 
with  the  day  in  and  day  out  business  of  living,  —  the 
letter  of  confession  and  farewell  that  Elsie  had  sent  to 
her  husband.  Oh,  the  senseless  idea  of  honor  that  had 
prompted  it!  The  madness  of  it!  That  letter,  and  not 
her  lover's  death,  Julie  saw  as  the  real  disaster  to  Elsie,  f 
through  which  she  must  be  helped  to  struggle  successfully, 
or  drift  —  where?  During  ten  minutes  she  was  a  concise 
questioner;  and  Elsie,  intensely  appealing  with  bleak,  at- 
tentive eyes,  gave  obedient  answers. 

"First,"  said  Julie,  "let  me  tell  you  that  I  made  it  my 
business  to  go  to  the  Credit  Lyonnais  and  look  over  the 
papers  on  file  that  had  been  published  about  the  time  you 


The  Next  Corner  153 

went  to  that  hospital.  You  see,  I  did  not  read  any  - 
working  over  here;  and  I  wanted  to  know  just  what  had 
been  written  about  the  young  marquis's  death.  Well,  I 
found  it  was  all  right.  There  was  an  account  of  how  he 
had  been  shot  by  a  thief  in  his  mountain  place,  some  very 
nice  lines  of  regret  for  him,  and  some  things  about  how 
great  his  family  is.  C'est  tout.  Therefore  all  is  well, 
unless  the  police  should  later  find  out  something.  So  tell 
me  a  few  things,  madame.  Are  you  sure  that  no  one 
noticed  your  going  away  from  that  place  that  morning?" 

"No  one.  The  coach  was  empty  halfway  down  the 
mountain.  Then  a  few  old  people  got  in  who  did  not  look 
at  me  at  all." 

"And  —  that  Serafin?"  said  Julie,  her  lips  pursed  in 
malice.  "Oh,  I  never  liked  him,  as  you  know,  madame  — 
like  a  long,  small-eyed  eel !  Well  —  you  feel  sure  he  will 
not  ever  speak  to  the  police  of  your  having  been  up  there 
during  —  ah,  during  that  dreadful  thing  that  happened 
to  that  splendid  young  man,  his  master?" 

The  dark  look  of  repugnance  that  always  came  with 
thought  of  Serafin  settled  on  Elsie's  face.  "Why  should 
he?  It  was  he  who  made  up  the  story  of  the  thief  to  put 
them  off  the  track.  Oh,  no.  I  have  finished  with  him 
forever.  I  have  that  to  be  thankful  for,  at  any  rate." 

"Good.  So  all  that  can  be  wiped  out.  Swish  —  it  is 
gone!"  Julie  declared.  "And  now  you  must  school  your- 
self to  thinking,  madame,  that  you  were  never  in  Spain 
at  all.  Next  —  about  your  money  ?  You  said  some 
money  had  been  stolen  from  you.  To-day  w*  will  talk  of 
it.  How  much  did  you  lose,  my  child?" 
*  "I  went  over  it  yesterday,  when  you  were  out,"  Elsie 
said.  "I  know  I  had  nearly  fifteen  thousand  francs  when 
I  went  to  El  Miradero.  When  I  was  getting  ready  to 
leave  the  hospital  and  took  out  the  wallet  in  my  bag  to 
get  some  money  to  pay  them  for  their  care,  I  found  that 
I  had  almost  nothing,  hardly  one  thousand.  Think  of 
it !  —  hardly  two  hundred  dollars  out  of  nearly  three 
thousand.  I  said  nothing  to  Soeur  Agatha,  my  sweet 


154  The  Next  Corner 

nurse  who  had  taken  charge  of  all  my  things,  for  of 
course  I  had  been  robbed  before  I  reached  the  hospital  — 
where,  I  can't  say.  It  might  have  been  that  the  servant 
at  El  Miradero,  who  took  my  luggage  down  the  road  that 
morning  in  the  fog,  stole  the  money  —  he  had  plenty  of 
time ;  or  after  I  had  fainted  on  the  train,  some  thief  — " 
She  gave  a  weary  shrug.  "I  don't  know.  It  is  gone,  at 
any  rate."  ; 

"It's  a  pity  you  have  so  little  in  the  way  of  jewelry. 
I  have  been  with  ladies  who  cleverly  collected  fortunes  in 
that  way,  and  so  you  see  they  were  never  at  a  loss.  You 
had  only  two  rings  as  I  remember,  and  not  very  expensive 
ones  either.  Am  I  right?" 

As  Elsie  listened  she  recalled  the  emerald  pendant. 
From  the  moment  of  her  decision  to  remain  with  Arturo 
she  had  meant  to  send  this  with  a  good  part  of  his  last 
money  gift  to  Robert ;  and  the  same  sensitiveness  had 
kept  her  from  wearing  the  jewel  at  dinner  at  El  Mira- 
dero, lovely  though  it  would  have  been  against  her  silvery 
whiteness.  She  felt  sure  that  once  Julie  knew  of  it  she 
would  advise  selling  it,  and  she  was  forced  to  see,  too, 
that  necessity  made  this  unpleasantly  wise.  It  was  ex- 
actly what  happened  when  from  the  compartment  for 
jewels  in  the  false  bottom  of  her  handbag  she  brought  her 
valuables.  Julie  gave  a  shout  of  joy  at  sight  of  the 
emerald,  and  some  lightning  arithmetic  resulted  in  the 
statement  that,  with  a  fair  market,  Elsie  would  have  for 
her  salvation  about  a  thousand  dollars.  Besides  this 
there  were  her  many  trunks  still  held  in  her  name  at 
Havre,  and  these  would  be  of  value  to  some  hundreds 
more. 

"Your  passage  to  New  York,"  said  Julie  in  a  tone  she 
tried  to  make  casual  while  appearing  blind  to  the  look  of 
surprise  and  opposition  that  dawned  in  Elsie's  face,  "will 
take,  with  other  small  expenses,  about  fifteen  hundred 
francs,  let  us  say,  and  then  — " 

"I  am  not  going  to  New  York."  Elsie  looked  at  her 
with  a  stony  and  sullen  sadness. 


The  Next  Corner  155 

"No?"  asked  Julie,  and  sat  back  in  pretended  confu- 
sion. 

"The  last  place  I  would  think  of  going  to !" 

"Where,  then?"  asked  Julie. 

"Here.  I've  thought  a  little  about  it  —  since  yester- 
day. I'll  stay  in  Paris,  Julie.  It's  big  enough  to  hide 
me." 

"But  one  must  do  more  than  hide,  madame,"  said  Julie 
with  wise  nods.  "One  must  eat,  my  child!  And  your 
little  lump  of  money  would  soon  melt  away." 

Elsie's  faintly  hollowed  face  gave  a  twist  of  bitterness. 
"I  mean  to  work,  of  course.  You  don't  seem  to  have 
thought  of  that." 

The  words  brought  only  a  fond  pity  to  Julie's  gaze. 
"At  what  ?  You  have  a  voice  —  that  is  true.  But  as 
you  often  said  to  me,  it  is  not  a  voice  like  your  mother's. 
It  is  only  a  voice  for  pleasure,  for  home.  Unless  — " 
With  candid  sorrow  she  met  the  eyes  that  were  trying 
wistfully  to  read  her  somber  look,  " —  unless  you  would 
seek  a  place  in  the  cafes.  Yes,  your  voice  would  get  you 
a  welcome  there  —  and  your  looks,  when  you  have  put  on 
a  little  flesh  — " 

"Don't !"  Elsie  swept  out  of  the  chair.  In  a  tornado 
of  childish  misery  she  turned  to  the  wall,  put  her  arm  up 
and  hid  her  face  against  it.  "How  could  you?  —  Oh, 
how  could  you?  —  Never,  never,  never  can  I  come  to  such 
a  horror  as  that !" 

"There  I  agree  with  you,"  Julie  said  briskly.  "No, 
you  must  not.  A  life  of  that  sort  of  struggle  would  be 
as  dirt  upon  you,  kill  you.  Very  well.  Then  come  back, 
ma  chere,  and  tell  me  —  at  what  would  you  work?" 

Elsie  came  slowly  and  stood  with  her  hands  pressed 
upon  the  top  of  the  low  chair.  There  was  a  fierceness 
about  her.  The  mere  picture  of  the  half-naked,  smirking 
women  that,  during  gay  excursions  of  curiosity  with  her 
friends,  she  had  seen  singing  in  the  cafes  to  the  shouted 
and  often  gross  familiarities  of  the  students,  had  seen 
going  among  tables,  drinking  with  the  patrons,  pulled  at 


156  The  Next  Corner 

and  whispered  to  by  them,  brought  a  rigor  of  self-preser- 
vation to  her.  For  all  the  shadows  left  by  illness  and  her 
unhappy  mind,  her  face  showed  a  new,  bright  strength; 
the  fine  line  of  her  brows  lifted  into  a  frown  of  defiance. 

"I  mean  to  find  employment  somewhere  in  Paris  that 
will  be  out  of  touch  with  all  the  people  I  know  here.  They 
are  residents,  either  French  or  cosmopolitan  —  but  resi- 
dents. I  could  serve  in  one  of  the  cheap  and  popular  little 
shops  that  are  patronized  almost  altogether  by  American 
tourists  and  where  my  English  would  be  useful.  I  know 
of  one  place  like  that  where  I  used  to  buy  gloves  when  I 
first  came  here.  You  remember  going  there  with  me  once 
—  a  little  slit  of  a  shop,  hardly  bigger  than  a  cupboard, 
almost  in  the  shadow  of  the  Galeries  Lafayette,  kept  by 
a  young  Frenchman  and  his  wife,  and  where  they  cut  and 
sew  the  gloves  right  there  before  you?  I  got  to  know 
them  in  a  friendly  way  in  those  early  days,"  Elsie  con- 
tinued hopefully,  a  pink  coming  into  her  cheeks.  "It's 
more  than  a  year  since  I've  looked  in  upon  them,  but  I 
know  they  will  give  me  a  chance  with  them  if  it's  at  all 
possible.  At  any  rate  that  shall  be  my  first  attempt  to 
find  work.  I  hope  to  come  back  and  tell  you,  Julie,  that 
I  am  to  be  an  American  clerk  in  a  French  shop,  selling 
gloves  to  my  compatriots." 

This  was  the  moment  on  which  Julie  had  counted.  Now 
that  she  was  sure  of  Elsie's  pitiable  outlook  for  herself,  it 
was  time  to  speak. 

"Madame!"  Her  voice  was  tender,  though  it  had  the 
ring  of  a  summons,  and  her  mouth  was  set.  "Forgive  me 
if  I  say  that  you  seem  a  little  mad  to  me  as  you  stand 
there.  Also,"  she  went  on,  "like  one  who  has  fallen 
overboard  from  a  big  comfortable  ship  to  a  small 
boat,  and  who,  without  oars,  is  floating  away  to  —  ah, 
what?  Well,  I  am  going  to  put  the  oars  into  your  hands 
and  all  those  things  my  brother  the  sailor  has  told  me 
of  —  weather  glass  and  compass  —  and  I'm  going  to 
advise  about  what  port  you  had  better  make  for  without 
a  minute's  delay." 


The  Next  Corner  157 

At  these  slow  words  and  her  stressful  look,  compre- 
hension came  out  in  Elsie's  face,  —  a  wan  light.  "I 
know  what  you  mean,  Julie,"  she  said  in  a  small  voice 
that  had  a  shiver  in  it.  She  held  up  one  doubled  hand 
as  her  eyes  closed.  "Don't  say  it." 

"As  I  am  your  friend,  I  must,"  Julie  said  and  stood  up. 
"You  have  one  chance  and  one  only,  madame  —  that  is, 
to  go  back  to  your  husband!" 

"I  won't  talk  of  it."  Elsie  went  to  the  window.  "If 
you  are  blind  —  or  won't  see  —  then  go  on.  I  shall  not 
answer  you." 

"You  think  it  is  impossible  because  you  sent  that  letter. 
But  ma  fille,  you  have  not  thought  of  one  thing  —  how  do 
you  know  he  might  not  listen  to  you,  if  you  went  down 
on  your  knees  and  prayed  to  him?" 

She  went  nearer  to  Elsie,  whose  back  was  to  her,  her 
chin  resting  on  the  sill  of  the  high,  slanted  window  as 
she  stared  out  with  sick  eyes. 

"I  saw  your  husband  but  one  day,  madame,"  Julie  con- 
tinued bravely,  her  big  firm  mouth  jolting  with  earnest- 
ness, "and  I  knew  then  that  when  I  had  often  thought 
him  cold  and  unkind  to  you  by  staying  so  far  away  from 
you,  I  was  wrong.  Whatever  the  reason,  it  was  not  that. 
For  I  saw  something  in  his  face  that  I  have  not  seen  in 
the  faces  of  many  men.  It  was  in  the  eyes  —  so  quiet, 
so  steady  and  clear  as  they  looked  at  me  —  that  knowl- 
edge of  a  strong  heart  came  to  me,  and  it  was  a  heart 
that  loved  you,  madame.  Oh,  that  man  —  he  loved 
you  well !"  she  said  and  ventured  to  place  her  hard  fingers 
on  Elsie's  downbent  shoulders. 

"I  did  not  speak  of  this  at  that  time,  madame,  for  I 
saw  all  ahead  so  fortunate  for  you,  as  you  were  so  soon 
to  join  your  husband,  and  besides  those  last  days  be- 
fore you  left  for  Spain  were  full  of  such  haste  and  fuss 
there  was  not  much  chance  for  talk.  But  I  tell  you 
now,  madame,  that  when  Monsieur  Maury  came  into 
the  apartment  and  did  not  find  you,  I  could  see  the  look 
go  over  him  that  would  come  to  a  child's  face  if  some 


158  The  Next  Corner 

one  that  it  had  believed  loved  it  should  strike  it  — 
tristesse,  and  a  wonder  that  such  a  thing  could  be!  Yes, 
for  a  moment  I  saw  that,  as  he  stood  looking  about  the 
empty  place.  You  see,  he  wanted  you!  He  had  come 
full  of  love  for  you.  I  could  tell  this,"  said  Julie  with 
deep  wisdom,  "for  I  know  the  look  of  love  when  I  see 
it,  and  I  know,  too,  the  look  when  the  heart  grows  cold 
as  a  stone  in  the  breast.  That  was  the  way  it  was.  Ah, 
a  great  pity  you  were  not  there  to  meet  your  husband 
that  first  day !" 

Her  hand  dropped  from  Elsie's  shoulder.  She  waited 
humbly  for  some  reply.  None  came.  And  the  glimpse 
she  had  of  the  face  with  shrouded  eyes  made  her  think 
of  the  death  mask  of  a  girl  that  she  had  seen  once, 
made  from  one  of  the  Seine's  suicides,  —  the  same  look 
of  resolute  pain,  the  same  fixed  irony  to  the  childish 
lips. 

"If  you  would  go  back  and  tell  your  husband  that  you 
are  sorry,  madame?  Ah,  if  you  would  do  that!"  she 
sighed. 

Elsie  turned  to  her  then.  She  was  forlorn,  but  spirited, 
burning. 

"I  was  sure  that  some  day  you  would  say  this  to  me. 
I  must  set  you  right,  so  that  you'll  never  say  it  again. 
You  don't  understand  a  man  like  my  husband,  Julie  — 
an  American  with  Scotch  traits.  You  don't  know  what 
his  wife's  absolute  fidelity  means  to  such  a  man.  What 
I  wrote  him  has  changed  me  forever  to  him.  I  don't 
believe  he  could  take  me  back,  even  if,  in  a  certain,  kind 
way  —  for  he  is  kind  —  he  forgave  me.  He  would  never 
forget  it  —  no,  never  really  care  for  me  again.  I  am 
soiled  to  him,  and  my  value  has  gone.  You  can't  under- 
stand this  stern  feeling  about  woman's  purity.  Your 
husband,  after  suffering,  would  take  you  back  and  never 
let  it  count  against  you.  The  point  of  view  is  broader 
here  —  different."  She  took  a  long  breath,  with  a  small, 
desperate  smile.  "Besides,  I  shall  never  say  that  I  am 
sorry.  Let  what  I'VB  done  make  a  mess  of  my  life  — 


The  Next  Corner  159 

all  right !  I  shall  never  be  a  beggar,  and  for  the  best  of 
reasons  —  because  I  am  not  sorry !" 

"You  are  not  —  ?"  Julie  stammered. 

"No,  I  am  not,"  Elsie  repeated,  and  now  both  eyes 
and  voice  though  forbidding,  were  piercingly  plaintive. 
"Not  sorry  in  the  way  you  would  like  me  to  be.  I  am 
sorry  from  the  very  center  of  my  soul  that  Arturo  had 
to  die,"  she  said  and  thrust  out  her  hand  for  Julie  to  take, 
which  she  did,  and  began  to  knead  lovingly  the  cold, 
winding  fingers,  "and  I  am  sorry  that  it  was  necessary 
to  hurt  my  husband  as  by  this  time  that  letter  has  hurt 
him.  But  I  am  glad  that  I  loved  a  man  as  I  loved  Arturo. 
I  was  walled  in  before,  and  he  brought  me  into  a  sun- 
light so  that  I  had  a  glimpse  of  heaven !  He  is  dead  — 
but  what  of  that?  Does  that  change  everything?  Only 
a  few  weeks  ago  I  put  my  life  into  his  hands !  Is  all  that 
finished  because  he  is  not  —  here?"  A  terrible  sadness 
trembled  over  her  and  the  look  of  a  worn-out  soul  came 
to  her  gray  gaze.  "Do  tenderness  and  loyalty  to  one 
that  is  loved  disappear  with  their  breath?  Oh,  Julie, 
Julie !"  .  .  .  She  paused,  staggered  by  the  inexpressible. 
"I  could  not  say  that  I  am  sorry  for  what  that  letter 
stands  for  —  no !  —  only  for  the  loss  and  the  pain  —  to 
the  three  of  us.  So  you  see  I  am  the  woman  who  wrote  it, 
and  who  meant  it,  though  the  man  for  whose,  sake  I  wrote 
it  —  has  —  gone." 

There  was  silence  between  them.  Julie  smoothed  and 
then  kissed  the  hand. 

"I  see,  madame.  Yes,  I  see,"  she  said  helplessly, 
"that  you  are  not  one  to  wriggle  down  the  easiest  road, 
as  I  would  do.  No  !  —  I  was  going  to  tell  you  to  go  back 
to  Monsieur  Maury,  to  weep,  to  kneel  before  him  and 
to  kiss  —  even  the  foot  —  anything,  but  not  to  let  him 
escape  you!  I  wanted  you  to  say  to  him  that  all  those 
foolish  ideas  about  the  young  marquis  came  from  the 
madness  that  begins  in  the  spring  and  is  so  unsettling. 
I  would  have  had  you  say  that  when  you  were  up  on  that 
high  mountain  at  the  mercy  of  the  man  —  and  Spaniards, 


160  The  Next  Corner 

you  know,  are  so  excitable  —  that  the  lover  held  a  pistol 
to  jour  head  until  he  had  made  you  write  the  letter, 
which  you  did  not  mean  at  all  —  anything,  but  not  to 
let  your  husband  slip !  For  you  see  a  husband  is  not  only 
agreeable,  but  so  useful,"  sighed  Julie,  "and  to  let  him 
get  away  is  like  tearing  up  money.  Still,  I  see  now  that 
this  cannot  be.  I  have  warned  you  —  but  each  to  her- 
self. I  cannot  make  you  —  me !" 

A  grim  drollery  had  gone  over  Elsie's  ghost-white  face 
at  this  burst.  She  laughed  with  the  sudden  sense  of 
fun  of  a  little  girl  as  she  pulled  Julie  to  her  and  kissed  her 
on  the  lips,  then  held  her  away  from  her  as  her  gaze  grew 
grave  again. 

"Let  it  content  you,  then,  that  you  have  warned  me, 
dear  Julie.  And  as  you  say,  each  to  herself  —  I  to 
keep  the  honesty  that  to  me  seems  plain  decency.  It  was 
a  struggle  for  me  to  get  up  the  sort  of  bravery  that  was 
needed  for  me  to  do  the  thing  I  did.  Then  I  must  hold 
to  that  bravery.  No  cringing  because  my  desires  mis- 
carried, no  bleating  like  a  sick,  frightened  sheep  to  get 
back  into  a  comfortable  fold.  Oh,  no  —  oh,  no  !" 

The  tenacles  of  war  fell  as  grappling  hooks  upon  nations 
and  unsettled  matters  of  high  state.  All  were  not  mighty ; 
some  were  so  minute  as  scarcely  to  be  visible  and 
quivered  their  way  into  the  workshops,  alleyways,  attics 
of  the  little  people,  made  confusion  of  obscure  lives, 
pricked  at  humble  hearts. 

One  of  them  caught  Elsie  as  a  wondering  atom  when, 
after  only  five  days  of  her  service  at  the  glove  shop,  the 
shutters  were  put  up  there  with  these  words  chalked 
upon  them:  "Closed  because  the  owner  has  left  to  join 
his  regiment.  Vive  la  France!" 

And  this  was  only  the  beginning.  Mobilization  had 
taken  Julie's  husband,  and  she,  red-eyed,  brave-hearted, 
was  preparing  to  hurry  to  her  old  mother  —  if  she  could 
be  reached  —  who  was  not  far  from  the  French  frontier 
at  Liege  for  which  the  Germans  were  making.  Paris 


The  Next  Corner  161 

rang  with  many  sorts  of  fear  and  only  one  purpose,  —  to 
save  France.  Through  this  and  above  it  there  was  an 
hysterical  clamor  from  the  travelling  Americans  around 
whom  the  tenacles  had  fastened,  producing  complex  dis- 
tresses and  also  only  one  purpose,  —  to  get  home,  to  put 
the  seas  between  them  and  this  incredible  horror  with 
which  they  felt  they  had  nothing  to  do. 

Elsie  seemed  to  herself  no  larger  than  an  ant  that  yet 
had  room  for  a  whirling  brain,  listening  to  the  destruction 
caused  by  some  appalling  wind  storm;  solid  ground 
seemed  slipping  from  beneath  her.  She  saw  panic 
on  all  sides  as  she  raced  about  the  city,  seeking  some 
chance  for  her  livelihood.  Shops  were  closed  everywhere; 
even  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  was  utterly  forlorn.  Trains 
to  the  coast  were  in  the  hands  of  the  army  for  mobilization. 
Stranded  Americans  were  holding  mass  meetings  at  em- 
bassies, steamship  offices  and  banks.  Transportation  and 
money  were  words  that  lost  meaning  in  the  hopeless 
muddle ;  letters  of  credit  went  unhonored ;  ships  on  which 
return  voyages  had  been  reserved  were  withdrawn  from 
passenger  service  to  be  used  for  war,  war,  war!  She 
heard  of  men  who  had  lost  automobiles ;  of  women  who 
on  the  continent  had  grown  frantic  from  days'  hunger 
and  had  paid  for  sandwiches  with  diamonds. 

She  was  at  a  standstill  in  this  chiaroscuro  of  dismay 
when,  a  few  days  after  the  closing  of  the  glove  shop, 
Julie  summed  up  the  crisis  for  her : 

"I  sold  the  pendant  to-day  for  what  I  could  get  —  only 
a  thousand  francs  —  as  to-morrow  you  might  not  be  able 
to  sell  it  at  all.  And  of  course  you  cannot  now  get  your 
luggage  at  Havre  —  perhaps  never  —  all  that  is  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  trouble.  So  with  what  little  money  you 
have  now,  madame,  we  must  manage  a  passage  to  New 
York  for  you  as  soon  as  it  can  be  done.  France  is  no 
place  for  foreigners.  My  poor  country  is  like  an  ox  that 
has  been  hit  on  the  head  with  a  club,  twisting  and  turning 
to  see  some  way  to  help  herself.  Only  the  good  God 
knows  what  will  happen  to  Paris  now!  So  this  is  a  time 


162  The  Next  Corner 

when  home  is  best.  Counting  out  jour  husband  alto- 
gether, at  least  in  America  you  have  your  mother  —  your 
own  flesh  and  blood.  And  with  us  here  in  this  hell, 
where  your  own  blood  is,  madame,  is  the  place  for  you." 

Arturo  had  said  at  El  Miradero:  "Ah,  Elsie,  you  have 
a  fearfully  vivid  mind.  You  see  all  around  an  idea." 
As  she  listened  to  Julie,  these  words  came  back  to  her, 
for  she  seemed  to  see  packed  Prussian  cavalry  riding  up 
the  Champs  Elysees  with  the  arrogance  of  owners,  the 
Prussian  eagles  on  their  helmets  making  a  hideous  glitter 
to  the  sad  eyes  of  the  French  crowds  watching  them. 
Edging  this  was  a  memory  of  the  streets  of  New  York  as 
they  looked  from  the  highest  windows  of  the  high  hotels, 
and  as  she  had  so  constantly  peered  down  at  them  in 
childhood,  —  fissures  in  mountains  of  battlemented  stone 
where  people  appeared  as  lines  of  black  maggots  moving 
in  swirling  ways.  With  a  new  pull  of  intimacy  and 
yearning  this  New  York  became  what  Julie  had  pictured, 
—  the  spot  where  she  was  privileged  to  stand ;  her  right ; 
her  own.  And  as  Julie  had  said,  it  was  time  to  seek  one's 
own. 

A  few  days  later,  with  kisses,  tears,  words  of  hope 
and  promises  of  meeting  again  in  better  days,  Elsie, 
after  forcing  a  third  of  her  small  capital  on  her  good 
friend,  left  her.  On  a  French  ship  that  sailed  packed  to 
the  deck  rails,  with  portholes  masked  and  lights  out, 
she  was  one  of  five  in  a  second-class  cabin  that  had  been 
meant  to  hold  three. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

THEY  were  at  breakfast,  —  the  Vinings.  At  first  sight 
this  might  call  up  a  picture  of  Elsie's  mother  and  the 
hat  creator  who  was  her  husband  in  a  trim  room  where 
a  table  glowed  with  damask,  sparkled  with  silver  and 
where  a  maid,  immaculately  capped,  placed  eggs  and 
bacon  before  the  master  in  his  correct  summer  flannels 
and  ready  for  business. 

Quite  different.  The  Vinings  were  in  half-opened  bath- 
robes, Nina  looking  scalped  under  a  blue  ribbon  that 
hid  her  hair  curlers ;  an  hotel  tray  took  up  the  end  of  a 
table  on  which  there  was  a  litter  that  began  with  a  mani- 
cure set,  continued  to  a  heap  of  soiled  gloves  ready  for 
the  cleaner's,  and  ended  in  a  half-trimmed  hat. 

Nina  Race,  for  she  was  called  that  about  equally 
with  Mrs.  Vining  —  and  Percy  approved  of  it  as  a  note 
out  of  the  ordinary  that  helped  business  —  was  balancing 
a  brocaded  mule  on  her  toe  and  frowning  at  a  letter  that 
had  slipped  from  her  limp  hand  and  now  lay  on  the 
floor.  Nina  was  as  fixedly  youthful  in  type  as  she  had 
been  in  Elsie's  childhood,  except  for  those  shadowings 
that  come  relentlessly  between  cheek  and  chin  when  men 
and  women  get  to  forty.  Her  hair  was  almost  golden  this 
year;  her  nose  was  that  lovely  sort  of  a  snub  that  so 
helps  a  woman  in  her  fight  against  Time;  she  had  a 
beautiful  mouth,  much  like  Elsie's  in  bowlike  form  but 
without  its  lovable  pensiveness,  Nina's  curling  almost 
ridiculously,  with  deep  curves  and  nicked  corners,  —  a 
tilted-up  redness  of  gayety;  and  even  in  the  cumbersome 
bathrobe  she  showed  the  slimness  of  a  girl  with  the 
height  that  belongs  to  about  fifteen  years. 

Percy  was  hunched  over  the  morning  paper,  reading 
the  headlines  about  the  war  and  speculating  on  what  in- 

163 


164  The  Next  Corner 

fluence  this  new,  martial  note  would  have  on  the  season's 
hats.  He  was  a  narrow  young  man  with  weary  shoulders, 
long  legs  so  thin  they  seemed  like  lathes  under  his  clothes, 
and  flat,  pointed  feet  always  conspicuous  below  tight  and 
short  trouser  legs  in  the  purple  stockings  that  he  usually 
affected.  He  was  blond,  almost  bald  at  thirty,  almost 
chinless,  with  pale,  protruding  eyes  that  seldom  smiled. 
He  had  a  light,  floating  sort  of  voice  that  never  strength- 
ened, although  he  was  given  to  the  most  vehement  expres- 
sions. As  he  was  also  a  perfect  imitation  of  the  English 
fop  of  comic  opera,  his  extravagant  statements  in  languid 
accents  were  of  a  sort  to  make  one  see  Bond  Street  instead 
of  Fifth  Avenue.  He  was  always  "keen"  for  a  thing,  or 
it  was  "quite  too  utterly  beastly";  it  was  "top  hole",  or 
he  was  "fed  up  with  it." 

For  all  this  lightweight  outwardness  he  was  a  rock  of 
sense.  Even  his  seemingly  unsuitable  marriage  was  bound 
to  continue  a  success ;  he  had  contracted  it  with  the  cau- 
tion with  which  he  signed  a  lease.  Nina  adored  him,  and 
he  had  always  found  the  devotion  of  one  person  necessary 
for  his  comfort.  As  she  was  so  much  older,  she  was  also 
very  grateful  to  him,  and  this  kept  his  ego  pleasantly 
warmed.  Moreover,  she  had  anticipatory  millinery  in- 
spirations that  made  her  a  valuable  business  partner  with- 
out the  depressing  need  of  splitting  profits.  And  best  of 
all  —  he  liked  her. 

"Well,  Perce,"  Nina  said,  tilting  the  coffee  pot  to  ex- 
tract the  last  drop,  "you've  read  Elsie's  letter  to  me,  and 
you  haven't  helped  me  a  bit  — " 

"Haven't  I?  I've  told  you  the  most  important  thing  — 
she's  stony !  She  must  be,  to  put  up  at  that  rummy  hole 
down  in  that  ghastly  neighborhood." 

"Maybe  she's  gone  there  because  it's  so  French.  She 
does  such  queer,  impulsive  things,  dearest  —  always  has. 
If  she  met  some  French  people  on  the  ship  who  were  going 
there,  and  she  liked  them,  that  would  be  quite  enough  for 
Elsie.  She  never  had  my  sense  of  values."  She  picked 
up  the  letter  as  she  spoke  and  eyed  it  drearily. 


The  Next  Corner  165 

"Rubbish!"  Percy  sniffed.  "That's  not  one  of  the 
French  places ;  it's  cheap  commercial !  I  tell  you,"  he 
said  again  as  he  rose  and  lifted  his  shoulders  briefly  in 
what  might  have  become  a  yawn,  "she's  stony.  And  it 
means  that  she  and  Maury  have  had  a  serious  spill  — 
you  know  you  were  afraid  of  it  —  that  Spaniard !  See  if 
I'm  not  right.  Probably  Maury  would  have  told  you  all 
about  it  when  he  called  here  three  weeks  ago,  if  we'd  been 
in  town  and  before  he  went  off  again  somewhere  —  Pitts- 
burgh, didn't  they  say  at  his  office,  when  you  telephoned? 
And  you  remember  how  he  wrote  on  his  card  that  he  was 
sorry  not  to  see  you !  —  even  said  very  sorry,  I  re- 
member." 

"Oh,  he'd  say  that  anyway,  coming  for  the  first  time, 
after  being  away  years  — " 

"Ah,  but  he  called  twice,  you  see!  Now  take  it  from 
me,  your  very  original  daughter  broke  loose  some  way  — 
Maury  found  it  out  —  they've  parted  —  and  for  the  pres- 
ent, at  least,  she's  on  the  rocks !  Let  me  hear  her  letter 
again.  I  only  glanced  at  the  thing." 

"  'Dear  Muv,'  "  Nina  began  obediently. 

"F-f-f— h !"  This  was  a  mincing  sound  of  nausea  from 
Percy.  "How  I  hate  her  tacking  'mother'  to  you.  Can't 
see  why  you,  a  woman  in  the  public  eye,  ever  had  a  child. 
Doesn't  fit  your  type  at  all.  Too  utterly  dreary !" 

"Well,  I  had  her,  and  I  have  her  still !"  Nina  sparkled 
as  she  curled  herself  in  the  armchair,  for  she  had  never 
liked  what  she  called  "the  mother  stunt"  and  revelled  in 
being  told  that  she  did  not  look  the  part.  "Besides,  there 
is  something  in  it,  Percy,  that  you,  not  being  a  mother, 
can't  understand.  I've  got  to  go  to  Elsie  and  see  what  I 
can  do  for  her  —  just  got  to." 

"Go  on  with  the  letter,"  Percy  remarked  darkly. 
"...  I  reached  here  last  night  after  a  most  exciting 
and  uncomfortable  voyage.  No  doubt  you  have  seen 
Robert  by  this  time,  or  heard  from  him  of  what  has  hap- 
pened and  how  things  are  with  us.  There  is  more  to  tell 
you  —  things  that  he  does  not  know  about  yet.  I  won't 


166  The  Next  Corner 

write  of  it,  and  please  don't  telephone  me.  This  is  not  a 
thing  to  be  talked  of  that  way.  I  want  you  here,  muv. 
Don't  imagine  I'm  going  to  burden  you  and  Mr.  Vin- 
ing—" 

"Rather  not!"  Percy  interrupted.  "Why  the  deuce 
should  I  be  burdened  with  a  married  woman  that  I've 
never  seen,  just  because  she  goes  dotty  over  a  foreign 
bounder?" 

"You  are  a  silly,"  Nina  cooed.  "You  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  about,  dear.  Arturo  is  a  Spanish  marquis 
—  one  of  the  oldest  names  in  Spain.  And  handsome?  — 
the  man's  a  dream !  Why,  let  me  tell  you  that  if  he'd  take 
the  trouble  to  come  over  here,  he  could  marry  any  one  of 
a  dozen  of  multimillionaires'  daughters  as  easily  as  turn- 
ing his  hand.  I  saw  women  of  fortune  and  title  run  after 
him  shamelessly,  yet  for  nearly  two  years  he's  never 
looked  at  one  of  them  —  quite  mad  about  Elsie.  So  don't 
be  too  hard  on  her.  She  was  as  ignorant  of  the  world  as 
a  baby  until  she  went  to  Paris  and  was  left  there  all  alone 
to  plunge  at  her  own,  impulsive  will.  Besides,  she's  a 
girlish,  sweet  thing  —  doesn't  look  a  day  over  twenty. 
It's  not  the  least  bit  surprising  to  me  that  Don  Arturo 
completely  turned  her  head!" 

"And  now  we  have  the  trouble  of  turning  it  back," 
Percy  said,  as  he  went  concavely  into  the  bedroom.  "Go 
on  talking.  I  can  hear  you  from  here." 

"Where  was  I  ?"  Nina  muttered,  bending  over  the  letter 
again : 

"...  to  burden  you  and  Mr.  Vining.  I  simply  want 
you  to  help  me  in  the  first  steps  that  must  be  taken  — " 

"Divorce!"  Percy  called  out  with  a  conclusive,  smack- 
ing sound.  "I  forgot  she  said  that.  It's  divorce  as  plain 
as  the  nose  on  your  face!" 

".  .  .So  come  as  soon  as  you  get  this.  Come  in  the 
morning.  But  oh,  let  me  ask  you  one  thing  —  don't  come 
to  criticize  or  scold  me  — " 

"Impertinent,  I  call  that!"  Percy  snapped.  "My 
word  —  !" 


The  Next  Corner  167 

.  .  .  What's  done,  is  done.  Help  me  to  piece  to- 
gether what  I  have  left.  Please  come  right  away.  — 
Faithfully  —  Elsie." 

"Not  a  word  of  affection !"  Percy  appeared  at  the  door 
with  his  head  through  a  China  silk  shirt  whose  bold  purple 
bars  gave  it  the  effect  of  a  diminutive  awning.  "Make  a 
note  of  that,  my  dear  — "  and  his  bulging  eyes  had  a 
mean  smirk,  "your  dear  daughter  merely  means  to  make 
use  of  you.  She  doesn't  even  try  to  hide  it." 

"That's  Elsie,"  said  Nina,  as  she  folded  the  letter,  un- 
curled herself,  and  passed  him  into  the  bedroom.  "She's 
always  been  so  outspoken.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  she 
doesn't  love  me  —  and  in  a  way,  I  can't  blame  her." 

"What  does  that  mean,  may  I  ask?" 

"She  was  too  affectionate  as  a  child,  and  I  didn't  en- 
courage it,"  Nina  said  lightly.  "She  was  always  asking 
me  to  kiss  her,  and  often,  when  I  was  going  out,  all  ready 
for  the  stage,  she'd  put  her  arms  around  me  so  hard  and 
tight  she'd  take  my  breath  away.  At  last,  on  one  night 
that  I  remember  —  she  was  about  eleven  and  in  bed  early 
because  she  had  a  cold  or  something  —  I  came  in  to 
say  good-night  to  her.  She  sprang  up  and  clutched 
me  as  if  she  were  insane.  'You  haven't  kissed  me  for  three 
days,'  she  said,  and  her  eyes  had  a  craving,  wild  kind  of 
look.  'I  counted  them !'  'And  I  won't  kiss  you  for  three 
more,'  I  said,  getting  away  from  her,  all  twisted.  'You 
paw  so,'  I  couldn't  help  saying,  for  I  was  furious,  'and 
I  hate  being  pawed !'  I  never  forgot  the  queer  change 
that  went  over  her,  the  look  she  fixed  on  me.  If  I'd 
suddenly  turned  into  a  snake  before  her,  she  couldn't  have 
grown  more  still  and  terrified.  'I  won't  —  any  more,' 
she  said,  and  slipped  face  down  among  the  bedclothes.  And 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  Perce,  she  kept  her  word.  In  fact, 
it  worried  me  how  silent  and  cold  she  grew  when  alone 
with  me,  so  that  at  last  it  was  I  who  would  sometimes  go 
and  kiss  her.  She'd  let  me  —  I  can't  say  more  —  just 
let  me,  for  I  never  had  a  real  kiss  from  her  again,  not 
even  on  her  wedding  day,"  said  Nina,  who  was  now  pow- 


168  The  Next  Corner 

dering  neck  and  face  with  a  lavishness  that  filled  the  air 
with  a  mist.  "No,  she  doesn't  love  me  as  girls  love  their 
mothers,  and  doesn't  pretend  to." 

"I  know  I'll  simply  detest  her,"  said  Percy  in  a  minc- 
ing yet  implacable  way,  as  he  wriggled  his  foot  into  a 
pump.  "I  hate  that  straightforward  sort  of  person  — 
always  conceited.  I'd  take  my  time  about  hurrying  to 
her,  I  can  tell  you  !" 

"I  shall  get  to  her  as  fast  as  a  taxi  can  take  me,"  Nina 
replied  affably.  "You  see,  Perce,  you're  not  a  mother." 

"I  know  I'm  not!"  he  screamed  in  thin-sounding  exas- 
peration. "You  said  that  before.  And  as  —  obviously 
—  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  be  a  mother,  please 
don't  say  it  again  i" 

It  was  close  to  three  o'clock  when  Nina  appeared  at 
the  hat  shop.  This  word  was  never  used  by  the  Vinings  ; 
they  called  it  the  "place"  or  the  "business."  And  out- 
wardly it  no  more  suggested  millinery  than  it  did  hard- 
ware. The  one  imposing  plate-glass  window,  flat  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  was  as  deep  as  a  small  room,  and  in  it  were 
several  things  —  a  fall  of  Italian  lace,  a  carpet  of  ancient 
embroidery,  a  vase  made  of  gilded  wicker  work  from  which 
flowers  trailed,  and  a  small,  stuffed  white  goat  with  one 
lifted  hoof  placed  airily  on  the  vase  —  but  not  a  hat  in 
sight.  Only  Percy  had  the  answer  to  this  mystifying 
decoration  and  he  gave  it  to  no  one  but  Nina: 

"You  say  you  don't  understand  the  window,  my  dear? 
That's  exactly  the  effect  I  wanted.  What  people  can't 
understand,  they  remember.  Besides  to  get  a  peep  at 
a  Vining  hat  they've  got  to  come  inside  —  and  when  they 
do,  it's  the  fly  walking  into  the  arms  of  the  spider  !  Clever? 


Percy  was  carefully  crushing  a  flapping  Leghorn  of 
the  shepherdess  type  over  the  left  eye  of  a  portly  woman 
who  should  have  worn  the  matron's  toque  of  saner 
days. 

"You  have  something  about  you  —  a  je  ne  sais  quoi  — 
for  this  simplicity,  madam,"  he  was  saying  as  Nina  en- 


The  Next  Corner  169 

tered.  "It  does  not  matter  that  the  face  is  a  trifle  —  full 
—  since  you  have  that  youthful  expression  — " 

He  saw  that  Nina  had  a  jaded,  almost  a  tousled  air  as 
she  closed  the  door  on  the  baking  street.  After  flinging 
one  look  eloquent  of  unhappy  news  to  him,  she  passed 
without  speaking  through  the  show  room  into  their  sanc- 
tum at  the  back,  where  the  accounts  were  made  up  and 
where  their  most  profitable  customers  often  had  tea,  or 
something  in  a  cup  that  looked  like  it  but  whose  resem- 
blance ended  with  the  color. 

She  was  sipping  a  gin  and  lemon  when  he  came  in  after 
completing  the  iniquitous  sale.  She  had  flung  off  her 
hat  and  was  clutching  her  head. 

"Oh,  Perce,"  she  said  and  flapped  one  of  her  small 
hands  close  to  her  ear  as  a  landed,  half-dead  fish  does  its 
tail,  "oh,  my  dear !  — " 

"As  bad  as  that?"  came  from  his  contracted  mouth. 
He  sat  before  her,  doubled  over,  and  hugged  a  lifted  knee. 
"Cough  it  up,"  he  said,  forgetting  for  the  moment  to  be 
vulgar  in  some  British  way. 

She  talked  with  weary  breaks  for  five  minutes,  during 
which  he  made  no  sound  and,  when  she  had  finished,  Elsie's 
story  was  plain  to  the  last  detail.  Percy's  look,  at  first 
peevish,  had  become  savage.  He  hated  anything  that 
took  attention  from  himself  or  disturbed  his  personal 
routine.  This  daughter  of  his  wife's  was  doing  both  and 
had  become,  as  well,  a  disgraced  petitioner  instead  of  the 
newly  rich  benefactor  who  might  have  put  money  into 
his  business  and  whom  he  had  intended  to  flatter  with 
that  end  in  view.  His  sudden  hatred  of  her  had  the 
potency  of  vitriol. 

"That  letter  she  sent!"  Nina  said  desperately.  "Oh, 
a  terrible  letter !  —  didn't  leave  her  a  peg  to  stand  on. 
I  made  her  go  over  every  word  of  it.  She  told  Robert  she 
didn't  care  a  pin  about  him  any  more,  that  she  was 
madly  in  love  with  Arturo,  was  writing  it  up  in  his  moun- 
tain place,  all  alone  with  him,  was  going  to  stay  on  with 
him  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  and  told  Robert  to  divorce 


170  The  Next  Corner 

her  at  once."  She  gazed  at  him  in  flat  helplessness.  "And 
now  the  Spaniard  is  —  dead!  And  if  she  hadn't  sent 
that  letter  the  whole  thing  could  be  dismissed,  for  you 
see  she  did  nothing  seriously  wrong — " 

"Hadn't  the  chance,"  Percy  rasped. 

"Chance  or  not,  she  was  kept  from  the  extreme  mad- 
ness. The  whole  thing  could  be  smothered  up  as  a  foolish 
escapade  —  only  for  that  awful  letter !  Ofh,  I  feel  as  if 
I'd  go  crazy." 

"And  you  say  she  won't  try  to  get  back  with  Maury? 
Won't  beg  him  —  ?" 

"Beg?"  Nina  almost  screamed.  "I  wish  you'd  heard 
her !  She'd  see  me  dead  at  her  feet  rather  than  open  her 
mouth." 

"Then  as  she's  a  dashed  lunatic,  you  must  go  to  him  — 
tell  him  how  the  fellow  was  killed  before  the  affair  had 
started  — " 

Nina  was  almost  too  tired  to  continue.  "Oh,  Perce," 
she  sniffed  into  a  corner  of  her  handkerchief,  "I  did.  I 
went  straight  to  his  office  away  downtown,  and  without 
a  bit  of  lunch.  Robert  wasn't  there.  He  won't  be  back 
till  to-morrow.  Besides,"  she  said  with  deeper  hopeless- 
ness, "between  ourselves,  I  don't  believe  that  anything 
I  could  say  to  him  would  do  a  bit  of  good.  It  wouldn't 
count  with  his  conscientious  sort  that  something  like  a 
thunderbolt  had  happened  to  prevent  Elsie  from  living 
with  De  Burgos  —  " 

"He  wouldn't  believe  it,"  Percy  interposed.  "I  don't 
myself.  No  man  would !  Up  in  the  mountains  —  scene 
all  set  as  she  wrote  —  and  then  she  back  here  as  pure  as 
an  Easter  lily  ?  'Nay,  nay,  Pauline !'  —  too  thick,  too 
thick !" 

"He  might  believe  it,  but  it  wouldn't  help.  Robert 
Maury  sees  straight  colors.  With  him  white  and  black 
never  mix  to  make  gray.  A  woman  is  worth  while  —  or 
she  is  not.  She's  straight  —  or  she's  crooked.  He'd  only 
consider  that  his  wife  had  allowed  a  man  to  make  love  to 
her,  and  that  her  intention  —  set  forth  in  ink  —  had  been 


The  Next  Corner  171 

to  live  with  that  man,  and  chuck  him.  Oh  —  it's  just 
terrible!"  she  ended  on  a  wretched  sigh. 

"Then  she's  not  going  to  make  any  play  at  all  to  get 
back.  And,  as  you  say  she  is  against  taking  any  help 
from  him,  it  can  only  mean  that  she's  going  to  try  and 
fasten  down  on  us  like  a  leech.  But  I  be  dashed  if  — !" 

"No,  there's  just  one  mite  of  hope.  After  I'd  talked 
myself  hoarse  for  an  hour,  showing  how  it  was  only 
Robert's  right  to  know  where  she  was,  so  he  could  get  the 
matter  settled  —  the  divorce,  you  know  —  she  wrote  him 
a  few  lines  and  asked  him  to  come  to  the  hotel  to-morrow 
afternoon.  Just  that  —  not  another  word.  You'd  think 
she  was  writing  to  —  to  —  a  piano  tuner !"  Nina  said, 
and  with  eyes  closed  in  exhaustion  finished  the  gin. 

"She's  dotty!  A  bally  lunatic!"  was  Percy's  summing 
up. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

THE  August  day  had  a  deadly  heat ;  there  was  hu- 
midity without  sun,  except  as  it  came  like  the  suggestion 
of  a  burning  lens  through  the  mist.  Vagrants  slept  fla- 
grantly in  the  public  gaze  on  the  benches  in  Union 
Square.  Men,  carrying  hats,  with  heads  sagging  back- 
ward to  keep  their  chins  from  the  touch  of  damp  collars, 
and  women  in  blouses  as  transparent  as  their  veils  moved 
with  an  effort  and  a  resentful  look  as  of  creatures  making 
an  undesired  way  in  an  element  not  their  own.  Touring 
cars  held  the  only  refreshed  ones,  in  town  for  the  day 
from  country  homes. 

The  physical  discomfort  was  without  acuteness  for 
Elsie.  She  had  gone  for  a  morning  walk  to  escape  from 
the  boxlike  hotel  bedroom  and  was  now  dragging  herself 
and  her  thoughts  up  the  rise  of  Fifth  Avenue  that  was 
capped  by  a  lilac-tinted  cloud.  She  was  in  a  curious 
mood.  Critical  as  this  hour  was  for  her,  she  did  not  seem 
to  care.  Her  talk  with  her  mother  had  but  emphasized 
the  distance  between  them,  made  her  see  with  the  clear 
eyes  of  the  disillusionized  her  pressing  need  of  self-help- 
fulness in  a  world  grown  dismayingly  big  and  that  was 
able  to  exist  successfully  without  a  thought  of  her.  Yet 
the  knowledge,  instead  of  biting  in  as  it  had  in  Paris, 
left  her  unconcerned. 

When  she  had  written  to  Robert,  because  she  could  not 
refuse  Nina's  abjectly  frantic  appeal,  she  had  felt  cold 
fear  of  him ;  that  had  gone  quickly  with  all  the  rest  into 
the  apathy  that  formed  the  present.  In  this  raw  hour, 
the  meeting  with  him  ahead  of  her,  she  had  sharp  sense 
only  for  the  past.  A  secret  temple,  swimming  in  light, 
seemed  to  be  in  the  depths  of  herself ;  and  there  she  glowed 

172 


The  Next  Corner  173 

answeringly,  for  there  all  that  was  finished  was  alive 
again. 

Elsie  was  one  of  those  sensitive  to  the  magic  of  mem- 
ory. Under  it  the  dream  figure  of  the  dead  could  walk 
beside  her,  become  the  poignant  thing;  the  "vanished 
hand"  hold  hers.  She  was  back  in  Paris  —  years  before 
—  her  first  days,  when  every  charming  impression  had  the 
potency  of  a  discovery.  Ah,  the  blue  morning  haze  en- 
wrapping the  great  Arch  on  its  rise;  the  sunset  making 
it  as  a  door  into  the  sky.  And  the  dear  smells  —  the 
tang  of  warmed  asphalt  with  cool  odors  from  the  Seine, 
the  scent  of  the  chestnut  blossoms  along  the  Champs 
Elysees  and  from  the  hyacinths  and  narcissi  in  the  many 
vendors'  carts,  —  all  the  magic  of  Paris  when  it  is  spring. 
Then  her  meeting  with  Arturo  —  the  headiness  that 
began;  the  bewitched  confusion.  As  this  became  the  love 
of  the  later  time,  she  was  with  him  in  the  Longueval 
garden,  the  melting  voice  of  the  English  contralto  seem- 
ing to  plead  for  him:  "Come  back  to  me,  beloved,  or  I 
die !"  With  racing  blood  she  was  beside  him  in  the  upper 
hall  at  El  Miradero,  the  storm's  stridor  filling  the  trem- 
bling house  as  he  swept  away  her  defenses  with  the  yearn- 
ing of  his  prayer  and  the  soft  fire  of  his  lips.  She  did 
not  see  him  dead.  Not  to-day. 

Yes,  it  was  a  curious  mood  and  a  profitless  one,  for 
this  pull  of  the  lost  had  no  value  in  the  world  struggle 
before  her ;  ah,  no  value  at  all.  Still  it  held,  and  the  dead 
walked  close  to  her,  spoke  her  name,  smiled  at  her.  Up 
the  avenue  and  then  down,  she  went  heavily,  —  she  and 
her  sweet  torment. 

This  relaxed  somewhat  as  she  reentered  the  hotel;  it 
was  so  shabby,  harsh,  so  visibly  a  part  of  her  new  de- 
cadence. And  when  the  clerk  handed  her  a  memorandum 
to  the  effect  that  Mr.  Maury  had  telephoned  and  would 
call  at  four  o'clock,  the  spell  broke,  sank  quite  away. 
Hard,  her  breath  held  back,  the  cold  fear  of  yesterday 
crept  over  her  again  and  tightened.  She  stared  at  the 
words  as  at  the  face  of  a  judge. 


174  The  Next  Corner 

After  that  her  thoughts  centered  on  the  future,  —  its 
first  fragment  this  interview  with  Robert  that  had  to  be, 
before  finis  was  written  between  them.  It  was  an  ugly 
necessity.  She  would  have  shirked  it  but  for  Nina ;  would 
have  kept  hidden  from  him,  reduced  to  a  memory,  while 
he  took  what  course  he  pleased.  As  he  had  to  be  faced, 
she  tried  to  get  hold  upon  what  was  in  her  of  the  practi- 
cal. She  had  been  starkly  honest  with  him  in  her  letter 
from  El  Miradero.  Let  her  only  be  passive  and  honest 
still,  while  he  would  tell  her  briefly  how  their  joint  freedom 
was  to  be  obtained,  and  then  he  would  go  away.  It  need 
not  be  too  hard  if  she  but  nerved  herself  to  a  sort  of  stony 
philosophy  and  acquiescence. 

She  put  on  one  of  the  plain  gowns  that  she  had  bought 
as  suitable  for  a  worker  in  the  Paris  shop,  —  a  straight 
gray  linen  much  like  a  large  apron  with  sleeves,  and  with 
a  turned-over,  boyish  white  collar  under  which  a  length 
of  black  silk  was  knotted.  She  did  not  touch  her  face 
except  to  powder  it.  Although  she  still  had  with  her  all 
the  toilet  trickeries  that  once  had  seemed  so  alluring,  she 
had  lost  the  enthusiasm  necessary  for  their  use,  even  in 
the  most  restrained  way;  they  belonged  to  a  woman  who 
had  had  the  heart  to  be  vain. 

She  was  ready  at  a  few  moments  after  three.  The 
time,  that  at  first  had  seemed  to  crawl,  began  to  suggest 
an  opponent  determined  to  take  her  strength.  Some- 
where, lately,  in  her  reading  she  had  seen  a  word  "harrier- 
hard";  it  had  brought  her  the  picture  of  a  hunting  dog 
that  held  like  steel  on  a  taut  leash,  and  she  had  told  her- 
self that  she  must  be  like  that,  —  harrier-hard.  But 
when  she  felt  every  moment  of  waiting  ten  times  its  length, 
she  dreaded  what  at  the  end  of  so  many  of  them  her 
physical  ebb-tide  and  her  thoughts  in  that  dingy  room 
would  do  with  her.  She  dreaded  feeling  soft,  tearful, 
lonely,  and  of  having  Robert  Maury  see  that  she  was 
these  things.  That  must  not  be.  For  she  had  no  repen- 
tance. The  plea  of  the  woman  who  has  made  a  blunder 
through  misconception  of  herself  was  not  for  her.  She 


The  Next  Corner  175 

had  loved  Arturo,  —  she  had,  and  did  still.  As  she  had 
told  Julie,  her  regret  was  for  the  pain  edging  that  truth 
and  for  the  fatality  that  had  turned  her  hopes  into 
tragedy. 

These  several  anxieties  gradually  lessened  before  an- 
other that  nipped  like  a  gnat,  —  her  mother  might  ar- 
rive just  ahead  of  Robert,  or,  even  worse,  while  he  was 
there.  She  was  about  to  try  to  reach  Nina  on  the  tele- 
phone and  warn  her  to  stay  away  when  word  came  up 
from  the  office  that  Mrs.  Vining  was  calling.  And  it 
lacked  only  ten  minutes  of  four! 

Elsie  straightened  and  kept  her  eyes  on  the  door,  des- 
peration darkening  them.  This  look,  with  the  Quakerish 
gravity  of  her  gown,  was  so  like  an  attack  upon  Nina 
when  she  clicked  in  on  the  slippers  that  were  as  absurdly 
tiny  as  their  buckles  were  huge,  that  she  stood  still  in  the 
doorway,  her  first  planned  phrase  shattered. 

"You  should  have  come  earlier,"  Elsie  said,  the  words 
nervous  and  rushed  together.  "You  can't  stay  now,  muv. 
Robert  will  be  here  in  a  few  moments." 

"Oh,  so  he's  coming!"  Nina  entered  eagerly,  her  face 
radiant.  "Well,  my  dear,  you've  put  on  just  the  right 
thing  to  make  a  good  impression ;  you're  like  a  schoolgirl, 
pale,  and  with  lovely  shadows  under  your  eyes  from 
studying  too  hard !  There  are  a  few  other  things  I  want 
to  say  to  you  — " 

"Don't  say  them."  Elsie's  tense  hands  urged  her 
prayerfully  to  the  door.  "Can't  you  see  that  if  you  talk 
I'm  likely  to  go  to  pieces?" 

"Goodness,  am  I  so  terrible?"  Nina  pouted.  "Well, 
I'll  go  —  but  just  listen  to  this  —  I  didn't  dare  speak  to 
Percy  as  I  promised  you,  about  giving  you  a  berth  as 
saleswoman  with  him.  He'd  have  snapped  my  head  off! 
So,  dear,"  and  she  held  fast  to  the  knob,  determined  to 
finish,  "do  remember  how  hard  it  is  for  any  one  to  get 
work  just  now  with  the  summer  and  this  war!  And  do 
remember  that  while  of  course  you'll  easily  marry  again, 
the  preliminaries  do  require  a  little  time  —  now  don't 


176  The  Next  Corner 

they?  And  so,  dear,"  she  sighed  conclusively,  by  this 
time  in  the  hall,  "if  Robert  insists  on  your  taking  a  small 
income,  even  though,  as  you  said,  he  isn't  a  mite  to  blame 
and  you  are  —  do  take  it.  But  anyway,  if  you  don't  —  " 
A  genuine  mist  here  came  to  Nina's  eyes  and  she  shot  an 
excellently  tailored  arm  over  the  gray  linen  shoulder,  "I 
want  you  to  know  that  you  can  count  on  me,  dear  —  yes, 
to  my  last  penny,  and  Perce  can  go  to  the  devil !  I've 
got  fifteen  hundred  of  my  own  in  a  savings  bank  that  he 
doesn't  know  a  thing  about,  and  if  the  worst  comes  — 
it's  yours.  I  thought  this  all  out,  coming  down  in  the 
taxicab,"  Nina  sniffed,  her  face  wet,  as  for  the  first  time 
since  that  night  in  the  lonely  long  ago  she  felt  Elsie  seize 
her  and  kiss  her  lips  with  a  slow,  deep  warmth. 

"What  bright  things  come  to  you  in  a  taxicab !"  she 
said,  a  smile  passing  over  her  sad  young  face.  "Ah,  so 
good  of  you!  But  never  fear,  muv;  I  won't  take  your 
little  hoard — " 

"Then  you  must  take  something  from  Robert !  As  he's 
so  generous,  it's  but  natural  he'd  — " 

"And  I'll  never  do  that !"  Elsie  breathed  with  a  touch 
of  wildness.  "Something  will  turn  up  to  help  me.  I'll 
see,  I'll  think.  Good-by  — " 

The  telephone  bell  rang. 

"Robert!"  broke  from  both  in  a  whisper. 

Elsie's  lips  paled.  She  seemed  for  a  moment  to  lose  the 
power  of  moving.  Afterward  she  was  only  dully  con- 
scious of  answering  the  call,  saying  that  Mr.  Maury 
might  come  up ;  and  of  her  mother,  who  feared  to  meet 
him  in  the  halls,  retreating  with  a  chair  to  the  bathroom, 
as  the  only  place  in  which  she  could  hide,  until  he  had 
gone  his  way  again. 

Elsie  was  left  standing  between  the  two  closed  doors, 
listening  to  the  distant  clash  of  the  elevator's  metal  gate 
and  then  to  an  approaching,  well-known  step,  —  easy, 
firm  and  long.  It  paused ;  there  was  a  knock. 

"Come  in,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  was  not  her  own  to 
her  ears  nor  to  those  of  the  man  who  opened  the  door. 


The  Next  Corner  177 

Robert  stood  with  the  knob  in  his  hand  and  looked 
across  at  her.  There  was  not  even  an  attempt  at  the 
smile  of  greeting  that  the  situation  needed  as  a  brace; 
neither  was  there  any  pleasantry,  however  trite,  to  give 
it  the  foothold  of  the  commonplace.  He  seemed  dismayed, 
as  in  silence  he  sent  a  dragging,  uneasy  glance  around 
the  drab  room,  his  brows  quivering  in  a  characteristic, 
quizzical  frown.  The  windows  were  full  on  the  west,  and 
the  sun,  that  had  strengthened  during  the  afternoon, 
came  through  a  broken  yellow  blind  and  fairly  broiled 
upon  dust,  rents  and  decrepitude. 

"Good  Gofl,  Elsie,"  he  said  in  flat-toned  wonder,  "what 
are  you  doing  here?" 

As  she  continued  silent  because  she  could  not  speak, 
he  gave  a  fling  of  his  loose,  sharply  straight  shoulders 
and  came  across  the  room,  adding:  "What's  the  meaning 
of  your  coming  to  such  a  place?  You  had  plenty  of 
money  — "  He  was  halted  by  the  defeat  that  came  into 
her  gaze  as  it  rose  and  fell,  wavering  about  him,  never 
fully  looking  at  him. 

"Tell  me  why  you  came  —  here?"  he  repeated. 

"I  lost  my  money,"  she  said  in  a  toneless  way.  "It  was 
stolen  from  me." 

"Stolen?  Well — ?"  He  put  his  hat  and  stick  on  the 
weak-legged  center  table  between  them.  The  question  in 
his  eyes  came  through  bright  anger.  "You  could  have 
asked  for  more  —  couldn't  you?  There's  a  cable  —  isn't 
there?  Don't  tell  me  that  you  were  afraid  to  ask  me!" 

She  met  his  eyes  then.  A  look  of  fierce  pride  ran  like 
light  over  the  flower  tints  of  her  face.  "I  never  thought 
of  doing  such  a  thing!" 

She  had  a  sharp  feeling  of  still  further  separation  from 
him.  He  was  a  curious  man,  —  his  first  words  irritation 
caused  by  a  minor  action.  This  was  in  such  direct  con- 
trast to  what  might  have  been  expected,  it  seemed  a  chill- 
ing eccentricity  that  affronted  her.  He  was  poised 
against  any  shock  or  wound.  Nature  had  supplied  him 
•with  some  exclusive  sort  of  comfort  by  which  in  a  twink- 


178  The  Next  Corner 

ling  the  most  accustomed  thing  could  change  to  a  cipher. 
Alone,  he  was  complete!  And  sharply  against  this,  she 
felt  herself  under  his  lucidly  intelligent  eyes  a  rootless 
weed  in  water  that  sagged  on  cross  currents. 

This  impression  left  her  when  his  look  changed  quickly, 
—  so  quickly  that  she  was  thrilled  by  it,  almost  terrified. 
She  could  not  imagine  sharper  regret  in  any  face.  Ah, 
now  she  felt  sure  she  was  seeing  him  as  he  had  looked  just 
after  reading  her  letter  in  the  first  moment  of  unbelief 
and  distress.  The  thought  took  on  the  power  of  a  magnet 
for  steel,  drew  her  far  away  to  the  desk  in  the  room  at 
El  Miradero,  where  the  wall  of  harsh  blue  stretched  above 
the  ancient  cope  upon  the  bed,  and  there  —  while  she  was 
impassioned  and  trembling  from  the  lover  she  had  just 
left  —  it  seemed  to  put  the  pen  between  her  fingers,  made 
her  write  again: 

"...  He  is  Don  Arturo.  .  .  .  To-night  I  decided  to 
remain  with  him.  ...  If  I  gave  him  up  and  went  back  to 
you  I  would  be  too  unhappy  to  live.  .  «  .  When  I  found 
myself  alone  with  him  up  in  the  mountains,  the  world 
and  its  laws  lost  their  strength.  ...  I  could  not  keep 
faith  with  you.  ...  I  gladly  give  up  home,  friends,  the 
good  opinion  of  the  world  for  him.  ...  I  am  in  love  — 
madly  in  love !  .  .  .  The  truth  written  here  will  be  enough 
to  gain  you  a  divorce.  .  .  .  Good-by,  Robert.  ...  In  all 
likelihood  we'll  not  meet  again.  ..." 

This  consciousness  of  a  finished  act  so  walled  her  from 
the  present  that  when  Robert  held  out  his  hand  it  appeared 
to  come  through  the  density  of  substance.  His  words 
were  even  more  unexpected: 

"I  began  to  be  afraid  -that  I  was  not  to  see  you  at 
all,  Elsie,"  he  said,  and  his  fingers  closed  about  hers 
in  a  kind  way. 

"You  wanted  to  see  me?"  She  asked  this  with  heavy 
wonder. 

"More  than  anything  in  the  world !"  And  after  a  glance 
that  was  a  troubled  question,  he  continued  in  the  clipped 


The  Next  Corner  179 

tones  that  she  remembered  had  always  meant  decision 
with  him.  "We  have  serious  things  to  say  to  each  other." 

She  drew  away  her  hand  and  sat  down.  "We  have. 
And  let  us  get  them  over,  please  —  as  long  as  I'm  here ! 
I  didn't  mean  to  come  back  —  oh,  never !  The  war  drove 
me  home." 

She  said  this  through  a  shudder.  For  all  his  generosity, 
how  paltry  she  must  look  to  him  —  having  written 
that  she  had  gone  to  another  man  —  to  be  before  him 
again,  astray,  piteous,  making  the  parting  hard  for  him 
in  spite  of  his  strength. 

And  oh,  how  strong  he  was !  She  gazed  at  him  across 
her  frayed  life.  Standing  above  her  with  his  finely  cut 
face  worn  by  energy,  discerning  eyes  under  the  restless 
brows,  the  hair  rippling  closely  over  his  head  with  the 
effect  of  a  steel-black  casque,  and  wearing  the  clothes 
that  always  expressed  him  —  browns  like  the  calfskins 
of  old  books  and  grays  like  the  rocks  he  worked  among  — 
he  seemed  more  than  ever  a  man  of  bronze  and  granite. 

The  next  moment,  and  while  she  tried  to  tell  him  of 
Arturo's  death,  another  act  of  his  surprised  her  even  more 
than  had  his  handclasp.  His  familiar,  very  individual 
way  of  moving  —  jerkily,  yet  with  a  looseness  that  was 
grace  —  held  her  silent  now  as  he  twirled  a  chair  to 
him,  dropped  to  it  sideways,  clasped  his  long  arms  over 
its  back,  and  let  his  eyes  rest  on  her  with  an  affectionate, 
flickering  smile. 

"Elsie,"  Robert  said  slowly  and  earnestly,  "why  didn't 
you  write  to  me?" 

She  heard  this  clearly,  —  and  felt  she  had  not  heard  it 
at  all.  She  kept  an  empty  gaze  upon  him. 

"You  promised  you  would,"-  he  said,  an  echo  of  old 
loneliness  through  every  inflection.  "But  I've  not  had  a 
line  from  you  since  the  night  in  Paris  when  you  left 
for  Spain!  Why  not?" 


CHAPTER    XX 

So  shaken  was  Elsie  that  the  walls  seemed  to  sway  in- 
ward and  touch  above  her.  Robert  went  into  the  perspec- 
tive, a  gray  streak  from  which  brilliant  eyes  questioned, 
and  then  came  back  to  tower  over  her.  As  the  stagger- 
ing change  righted  she  found  herself  just  as  she  had  been, 
sitting  in  a  rocking  chair,  her  hands  holding  fast  to  its 
sides,  and  he  before  her  with  a  studying,  gentle  look  that 
held  reproach. 

"Not  a  line!"  she  heard  him  say.  "Wasn't  that  un- 
necessarily harsh?" 

A  shadowy  struggle  showed  in  her  face.  He  could  not 
know  of  the  impulse  that  made  it.  She  wanted  to  give 
utterance  to  her  amazement  and  tell  the  truth  in  one  wild 
burst ;  not  to  tell  it ;  to  wait,  although  just  why  she 
should  wait  she  did  not  know. 

"I  hoped  you'd  tell  me  to-day  that  you  had  written  and 
that  the  letter  was  roving  about  after  me.  You  see,  I 
had  expected  to  go  to  South  America  a  month  ago, 
straight  from  the  West,  and  some  foreign  letters  for  me 
that  came  to  New  York  were  sent  on  there  at  once.  I  do 
go  on  to  Venezuela  quickly  now.  Nevertheless  I  ordered 
my  mail  returned  here,  because  I  felt  sure  that  among  it 
there  would  be  some  word  from  you.  It's  all  on  its  way 
back  now.  —  The  situation  between  us,  Elsie,  has  dis- 
turbed me  to  the  core.  I've  kept  thinking  of  it  constantly. 
I've  caught  at  every  possible  hope  to  escape  the  serious- 
ness of  it.  I  wouldn't  let  myself  believe  that  you  hadn't 
written.  Lately  I've  felt  that  the  confusion  of  the  war 
had  delayed  or  lost  some  recent  letter  from  you.  In  fact, 
I've  hoped  this  up  to  this  very  minute  —  but  you  didn't 
write  to  me,  I  can  see!  Didn't  write  at  all?" 

While  he  was  speaking,  Elsie,  looking  past  him,  had 

180 


The  Next  Corner  181 

been  aware  of  the  most  cautious  opening  of  the  bathroom 
door,  only  enough  to  show  her  Nina's  eyes  with  a  look  of 
wild  prayer  and  a  glimpse  of  her  supplicating  hands, 
urging  silence.  This  was  a  flash  before  the  door  came 
between  them  again. 

"No."  Elsie  said  this  on  a  suspended  breath.  "I 
didn't,"  she  added  with  more  force,  though  a  clutch  had 
come  upon  her  throat  as  the  lie  struggled  through. 

Color  went  darkly  over  Robert's  face  and  a  look  that 
was  out  of  keeping  with  its  sharp  strength,  —  of  na'ive, 
boyish  dejection.  "I  don't  think  I  deserved  that.  I 
could  never  have  been  so  inconsiderate  of  you." 

She  made  no  answer;  instead,  sat  gazing  at  him 
with  a  touch  of  the  awestruck  uncertainty  that  comes 
to  eyes  on  a  sudden  awakening. 

"You  got  my  letters,  of  course."  His  voice  was  now  al- 
most coldly  patient,  the  tone  of  one  who  starts  to  examine 
some  troubling  thing  in  a  dispassionate  way. 

"One  —  I  think.  Yes,  I  remember.  One  came  from 
London  before  you  sailed." 

"That  went  to  Paris.  But  there  were  others.  I  wrote 
you  fully  half  a  dozen.  One  almost  at  once  went  from 
the  ship  to  the  Spanish  address  you  gave  me;  later  ones 
went  to  the  Ritz  to  be  held  for  you.  Didn't  you  go  back 
there?" 

"No." 

"Where  did  you  go?" 

"I  stayed  at  —  at  — "  She  edged  from  saying  she  had 
lived  in  Julie's  home.  —  "at  a  small  place  in  the  Latin 
Quarter.  I  told  you  my  money  was  stolen.  I  was  ill, 
too.  Julie,  my  maid,  was  with  me." 

"And  you  never  thought  that  I  would  write  you  to 
the  Ritz?  Why  that  seems  to  me  the  first  thing  that 
would  naturally  have  occurred  to  you !"  He  frowned 
helplessly,  so  astray  by  this  fact  that  for  a  few  seconds 
doubt  shadowed  the  steady,  blue  gaze.  "Something 
hidden  here?  What  eludes  me?"  it  asked. 

While   recognizing  his  look  as   the  charged  wire  re- 


182  The  Next  Corner 

quiring  careful  handling,  Elsie  made  no  effort  to  reassure 
him,  the  recklessness  of  honesty  mixing  with  deceit.  "I 
forgot  the  Ritz,"  she  said,  the  tone  deadened. 

At  the  same  time  she  had  sense  of  being  several  in- 
telligences that  worked  together  and  yet  independently. 
With  one  she  saw  the  situation  as  Robert,  not  yet  having 
had  her  letter,  saw  it.  With  a  second  she  lived  through 
the  agonies  of  her  secret  story  in  flashes,  —  most  keenly 
those  hours  when,  as  a  forlorn  light-o'-love,  she  was 
cast  out  of  El  Miradero,  wild  and  lost,  her  soul  sick  from 
shame.  And  with  still  another  there  came  a  flare  of 
what  might  await  her,  at  least  in  the  present,  if  she  per- 
sisted in  her  lie.  Help  was  there  and  hope,  a  sedative 
to  banish  the  hideous  feeling  of  belonging  nowhere;  es- 
cape from  the  aftermath  of  loss.  And  all  of  these  could 
be  paid  for  by  her  as  the  woman  who  is  wanted  by  a  man 
can  always  pay. 

It  was  this  last  that  whipped  her  to  her  feet,  stirred 
deeply,  open-eyed  to  the  cowardice  with  which  she  was 
juggling.  The  writer  of  that  farewell  could  not  evade 
it,  be  false  to  it.  She  could  not  so  outrage  the  one  precious 
thing  left  to  her  out  of  the  wreck,  —  fidelity  to  the  loved 
dead,  and  desperate  pride  in  it.  She  did  not  want  to  go 
back.  She  could  never  again  be  Robert's  wife.  Her  heart 
was  in  a  grave.  Her  brain  heaved  under  the  onslaught  of 
these  resolves,  and  the  truth,  already  at  her  lips,  had  al- 
most rushed  over  them  when  Robert  drove  them  away. 
With  one  of  his  quick  lunges  over  the  chair's  back  he  had 
seized  her  wrist. 

"I  understand  so  well  just  how  things  are  between  us," 
she  heard  him  say.  "We've  played  recklessly  with  our 
lives  during  these  years  apart;  we've  grown  apart,  we 
have  changed.  But  it  isn't  too  late  to  start  again.  I 
could  not  bear  to  lose  you,  Elsie !" 

He  was  kneeling  on  the  chair  as  very  gently  he  drew 
her  nearer,  taking  her  hand  seriously  in  both  of  his.  His 
face  was  strong  with  reasonableness,  humble  in  a  plea  as 
he  went  on : 


The  Next  Corner  183 

"After  I  left  you  in  Paris,  I  felt  dissatisfied  with  myself. 
Something  — '  what's  called  the  Scotch  conscience,  I  sup- 
pose —  got  after  me  on  the  ship  when  I  had  plenty  of 
time  for  thinking  tilings  out.  I  saw  how  the  whole  busi- 
ness of  life  had  been  wrong  with  us  for  years.  That 
was  why  I  had  suffered  such  disappointment  in  Paris.  I 
had  slowly  grown  self-sufficient  —  oh,  hideously  so  —  and 
you  were  confusingly  different  that  day  from  the  memory 
I  had  treasured  of  you !  You  don't  look  so  now  —  not  at 
all  the  same  creature.  Now  you're  the  girl  I  knew  —  so 
little  changed  from  my  first  sight  of  you  at  Nina's  wild 
card  party  six  years  ago  and  more,  that  it's  really  un- 
canny." 

"I  am  not  the  same,  though,"  Elsie  flashed,  a  bitter 
twist  moving  over  her  beautiful  mouth.  "Don't  imagine 
it." 

"Ah,  well  —  of  course  years  do  leave  traces,  even  when 
they're  not  seen.  But  you're  real  now,  so  unlike  what  you 
were  on  that  day  in  Paris  when  your  three  years  there 
seemed  to  have  damaged  you  in  some  ugly  and  sophis- 
ticated way,  given  you  a  cynical  mind  as  well  as  a  strange 
face!  I  wanted  nothing  but  to  get  away  from  you  and 
readjust  myself  to  the  depressing  change.  And  you?  — 
I  know  you  felt  just  as  divided  from  me  —  that  you 
snatched  at  the  chance  I  gave  you  of  going  to  Spain,  to 
your  friends.  Yet,  while  you  wanted  this,  I  could  see 
that  you  resented  my  eagerness  to  have  you  go.  Well  — 
there's  no  use  digging  further  into  the  causes  for  what 
has  resulted.  I  ask  you  to  come  with  me  to  South 
America,  and  I'll  try  to  make  you  happy.  I  don't  want 
you  ever  to  leave  me  again.  I  love  you,  Elsie !" 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  Deep  regret  gave  body  to 
her  words  when,  after  a  pause,  they  came.  "I  don't  love 
you,  Robert.  I'm  sorry.  I  cannot  go  back  to  you." 

He  dropped  her  hands.  The  blood  surged  up  his  face 
in  a  painful  way  that  was  the  voice  of  his  humiliation; 
ebbed  as  quickly,  leaving  it  ashen  under  its  brown 
and  clouded  over  as  if  an  inner  light  had  been  snapped 


184  The  Next  Corner 

out.  He  went  to  the  open  window  and  gazed  at  the  mist 
streaks  through  the  heavy  sun. 

Elsie,  aware  that  the  bathroom  door  had  opened  very 
slightly  and  closed  again,  did  not  give  it  a  glance.  She 
sat  down,  her  clasped  hands  on  the  table  and  waited.  The 
look  of  defeat  on  Robert's  face  had  touched  her  to  passion- 
ate sympathy.  She  would  be  glad  to  end  this  meeting 
without  mention  of  the  letter.  When  at  last  it  overtook 
him,  she  would  not  be  there  to  see  its  bitter  effect  on 
him.  And  if,  through  some  maze  of  chance,  this  never 
happened  and  he  never  read  those  lines,  still  better;  he 
would  be  spared  that  added  twist  of  the  screw. 

Several  moments  passed,  the  room  silent  save  for  the 
streets'  clangor,  before  he  turned.  When  she  felt  his 
shadow  sway  over  her  as  he  bent  across  the  table,  she 
looked  up. 

"Then  come  back  as  a  friend,"  he  said  earnestly. 
"Don't  refuse  me  this!  Let  us  start  again  that  way. 
Come  with  me  to  South  America.  I  would  be  very  lonely 
not  seeing  you  at  all  and  troubled  about  you,  too.  This 
would  give  the  old  feeling  a  fighting  chance  to  revive,  as 
separation  could  not.  And  whenever  you  might  wish  to 
go,  you'd  be  perfectly  free  to  do  so.  As  a  friend,  Elsie? 
Shall  we  make  that  compact?  What  do  you  say?" 

She  sat  in  the  shadow,  watching  him  in  a  way  that 
was  rapt.  Her  fluttering  hair  sparkled  about  her  face, 
giving  a  luminous  quality  to  its  pallor  that  reminded 
Robert  of  flowers  of  delicate  tint,  drained  of  all  color 
by  the  dusk,  yet  shining  within  it.  A  strange  longing  had 
come  to  her  hollowed  and  bright  eyes ;  a  hushed  look  that 
he  could  not  understand,  as  if  she  had  stumbled  on  some- 
thing valuable  and  with  doubting  surprise  was  trying 
to  believe  in  its  reality.  This  was  exactly  what  had  taken 
place  in  her  soul; 

Could  what  he  asked  come  true?  She  did  not  believe 
it.  And  yet,  Arturo  was  dead,  and  this  living  man  whose 
remembered  kindness  had  always  been  an  unescapable 
thread  about  her  heart,  even  when  it  had  ached  with  in- 


The  Next  Corner  185 

tense  love  for  another,  needed  her.  If  she  could  ever 
say  good-by  to  despair  and  again  count  love  as  the  sum 
of  her  life,  how  good  if  it  could  be  for  this  husband  whom 
she  had  failed!  He  had  asked  for  a  fighting  chance. 
And  in  spite  of  her  doubt,  might  there  be  one  —  providing 
the  letter  never  came  into  his  hands? 

For  the  first  time  since  the  moment  when  to  her  ques- 
tion: "Dead?"  Serafin  had  answered:  "Yes,"  life,  in  its 
collapse  under  the  crust  of  desolation,  stirred  for  her.  She 
had  faint  sense  of  a  glow,  a  fancy  of  quickened  days  be- 
yond some  as  yet  unseen  horizon  where  things  might 
matter  once  more  and  to-morrows  beckon.  On  that  feel- 
ing spring  seemed  to  peep  into  the  dismal  room,  a  garden 
to  blow  its  scent  through  the  window. 

Her  eyes  sank  before  Robert's  gaze,  neutral  save  that 
it  was  earnest.  From  the  deep  well  of  womanhood  in 
her  a  galling  drop  welled  up  for  her  deception,  even 
while  she  muttered  with  broken  eagerness :  "Yes,  yes,  yes." 


CHAPTER    XXI 

SOON  after  this,  Robert  left.  Nina  stole  out.  She  was 
transformed.  She  found  Elsie  sitting  at  the  table,  lean- 
ing on  her  elbows,  her  hands  arched  above  her  eyes.  At 
sound  of  a  convulsive  gurgle  from  her  mother  she  lifted 
her  head,  and  her  look  had  a  wilting  effect  on  Nina's 
triumph.  It  seemed  to  see  things  far  beyond  and  around 
her,  and  there  was  a  physical  sickness  in  it. 

"Don't  say  you're  glad!"  broke  from  her,  a  threat. 

Nina  held  her  breath.  "I  am  glad,"  she  found  courage 
to  cry  defiantly.  "You've  saved  yourself.  Of  course  I'm 
glad.  Some  one  cares  for  you.  You've  got  a  future. 
You're  not  a  bankrupt!" 

"I'm  worse.  I'm  a  liar!"  Her  face  changed  start- 
lingly  to  a  look  of  inward  collapse  through  which  the 
eyes  had  the  poignancy  of  a  hunted  thing,  listening.  She 
leaped  up.  "I  can't  do  it,"  came  from  her  on  a  whisper, 
pitched  wildly  and  high.  "I  don't  know  why  I  said  I 
would.  I  want  to  be  free.  I  want  to  go  away  — " 

"Go  where?"  Nina  demanded  in  angry  fright.  "Tell 
me  where  you'll  go?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  can  try  —  somehow.  I  want  to  try. 
I  can't  do  this  —  begin  the  life  of  a  cheat.  I  can't  un- 
derstand how  I  thought  I  could  do  it.  I  hate  myself. 
But  it's  not  too  late.  I  can  get  away  now.  You  stay 
here.  Tell  Robert  when  he  comes  —  tell  him  anything  — 
I  don't  care  what.  Tell  him  about  Arturo  —  and  the 
letter  —  what  I  said  in  it !" 

There  was  a  distracted,  fanatic  look  about  her  as  she 
rushed  to  the  closet  and  pulled  a  hat  from  the  shelf. 
While  she  tried  with  uncertain  fingers  to  pin  it  on,  Nina 
ventured  to  touch  her  appealingly  on  the  shoulder. 

"Don't  try  to  make  me  stay !  It's  nothing  to  you  that 

186 


The  Next  Corner  187 

I  think  what  I  do  —  feel  what  I  do !"  broke  from  Elsie 
on  an  angry  sob.  "You  only  want  me  in  a  home,  looked 
after  by  a  husband  —  with  money !  You  won't  let  your- 
self see  that  I'm  suffering  because  the  man  I  loved  is  dead. 
You  don't  realize  —  or  care  —  that  it's  of  him  I  think 
and  not  of  Robert  at  all  —  oh,  not  at  all !"  she  finished 
on  a  thin  wail. 

Nina  could  only  wait.  She  sat  down  in  an  exhausted 
way,  terrified,  and  watched  Elsie,  as  with  pupils  dilated, 
her  look  one  of  raging  resolve,  she  put  her  folded  coat  on 
the  table,  opened  and  closed  a  bureau  drawer  in  a  search 
for  gloves.  She  was  dragging  these  on,  her  mouth  giving 
nervous  twitches,  when  Nina,  as  well  as  her  weakness 
permitted,  began  to  speak: 

"You  are  running  off.  All  right.  But  there's  just  one 
thing  I  want  you  to  think  about."  There  was  a  reason- 
ableness in  the  tone  that  she  could  see  brought  her  a  shade 
of  Elsie's  attention,  the  while  she  continued  her  prepara- 
tions. 

"Well,  what  is  it?  I  haven't  long.  You  can  send  my 
trunk  after  me.  I'll  go  to  some  other  hotel  —  there's 
one  on  the  next  street  — " 

Nina  changed.  She  grew  frantic  and  sat  forward, 
beating  her  small  fists  on  her  knees :  "I  want  you  to  for- 
get yourself  for  a  moment!"  she  cried,  the  tone  like  a 
flung  missile,  scorn  in  it.  "I  want  you  to  think  of  what 
the  word  mercy  means !" 

Elsie  paused  to  look  at  her  in  a  dumb  way,  puzzled. 

"I'm  not  going  to  judge  or  scold  you  for  this  wretched 
thing  that  happened.  It  happened.  And  it's  over.  But 
there's  Robert  Maury's  side  to  this,"  Nina  went  on,  with 
control  of  herself,  though  still  forcefully.  "It's  got  to 
be  considered  —  and  now  is  the  time." 

"No,  no,"  Elsie  said  with  bitter  sadness.  "Talking  of 
that  won't  help  at  all." 

"I  may  at  least  ask  what  he  has  done  to  deserve  the 
deliberate  cruelty  that  you  are  planning  to  hand  out  to 
him?  Have  you  any  reason  for  causing  him  this  shock 


188  The  Next  Corner 

and  suffering  when  the  whole  episode  that  supplied  it  is 
finished  —  finished  to  the  uttermost?  No,  you  have  none. 
So  it  must  be  that  you  hate  him!  And  why  should  you 
hate  him?  Is  it  because  he  still  cares  for  you?"  she  tersely 
demanded. 

Elsie's  head  had  been  lifting  in  denial  and  at  the  last 
words  a  spasm  of  pain  softened  her  face.  "Hate  him? 
You  say  that  while  you  know  it's  not  true!" 

"Well  —  then?"  Nina  demanded  on  a  shrug  that  was 
a  repetition  of  her  questions. 

"I  have  a  tender  feeling  for  Robert  —  liking  —  and 
pity,  great  pity.  I'm  not  worth  his  caring,  I  know." 

"And  because  you  pity  him,  and  because  you  feel  you 
don't  deserve  his  love  —  is  that  why  you  are  determined 
that  he  shall  not  escape?" 

"The  least  I  can  do  is  to  be  honest  with  him  —  not 
lie  to  him !" 

"Sometimes  a  lie  is  a  virtue.  I  tell  you  that  —  flat ! 
The  lie  you  told  to-day  had  mercy  in  it.  And  if  you  take 
it  back  —  you'll  be  brutal." 

"We  don't  see  things  the  same  way,"  Elsie  said  with 
tremulous  intensity.  "Robert's  sure  to  suffer,  whatever 
way  we  look  at  it.  He'll  suffer  when  you  tell  him  why  I've 
gone.  But  if  I  did  what  you  want  me  to  do,  he'd  suffer 
more  when  —  at  last  —  he  found  me  out." 

Nina  went  to  her  side.  She  was  too  clever  to  caress 
Elsie  in  her  present  mood,  —  seemingly  quiet,  wistfully 
defensive,  with  a  dangerous  flame  underneath.  She  merely 
laid  the  rosied  nail  of  her  right  forefinger  upon  the  table 
as  if  pointing  to  what  she  described,  and  met  her 
daughter's  eyes,  her  own  look  one  in  which  there  was  no 
emotion,  only  bright,  concentrated  force. 

"But  that's  exactly  what  I  mean.  See  here!  He  need 
not  have  one  unhappy  moment  because  of  this  —  not  if 
you,  from  kindness  alone,  take  it  upon  yourself  to  prevent 
his  finding  out.  It  rests  with  you  to  keep  that  chapter 
in  Spain  from  ever  becoming  known  to  him  —  no  word 
of  it!" 


The  Next  Corner  189 

"And  how  can  that  be  done?"  Elsie  asked  with  a  weary 
wonder  and  unbelief. 

"He  wants  you  to  go  to  South  America  with  him.  He 
does  this  meaning  to  try  to  get  you  back.  Of  course! 
And  suppose  he  should  succeed?  —  wouldn't  that  be  the 
best  thing  that  could  happen  to  you?  And  suppose  he 
failed?  —  couldn't  you  leave?  But  putting  all  that  to 
one  side,  your  real  reason  for  going  and  your  real  work 
there  would  be  to  get  your  hands  on  that  letter.  You 
could  manage  to  stay  long  enough  for  that.  If,  then, 
you  felt  you  had  to  get  away,  you  know  that  Robert 
would  keep  his  promise  to  you,  wouldn't  lift  a  finger  to 
hold  you.  Could  anything  be  simpler?"  Unconsciously 
she  found  herself  uttering  one  of  Percy's  London  expres- 
sions in  Percy's  helpless  tone :  "Now  —  I  ask  you !" 

Elsie  drew  away  gently  and  stood  at  a  distance,  an  un- 
easy figure,  her  head  heavily  hanging.  Oh,  the  many 
things  she  saw!  The  confusion,  past,  present  and  to 
come.  There  seemed  to  be  about  her  a  web  whose  shuttle 
had  split  and  set  the  coils  leaping,  while  she,  an  atom, 
was  fighting  the  blinding  tangles  for  foothold  and  a  loop- 
hole of  escape.  And  as  she  remained  so  in  the  room's 
deep  quiet,  Nina,  who  breathlessly  watched,  saw  her  look 
of  sickness  fade  and  a  hot  brightness  spread  over  her 
face. 

"Keep  it  from  reaching  him?"  she  murmured.  Her 
head  swayed  slightly  in  negation  as  she  added,  "I  wish  I 
could !  —  how  could  I  ?  Why,"  and  she  turned  to  look 
fully  at  her  mother,  "it  may  come  any  moment !" 

"And  it  may  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea !"  Nina  replied 
swiftly,  holding  to  the  impression  she  saw  she  was  begin- 
ning to  make  on  Elsie.  "In  fact,  just  about  the  time  the 
letter  must  have  been  on  its  way  over,  I  remember  reading 
that  a  liner  was  wrecked  —  the  people  all  saved  —  but 
the  ship  left  to  break  on  rocks  somewhere,  and  of  course 
all  its  cargo  lost.  So  ten  .to  one  that's  the  explanation, 
and  the  wretched  thing  will  never  bob  up  at  all !  Just  the 
same,  to  be  quite  sure,  there's  only  one  thing  to  be  done ; 


190  The  Next  Corner 

go  with  Robert,  be  nice  and  friendly  with  him,  and  should 
the  letter  come  —  manage  to  steal  it.  If  —  let  us  say  — 
after  six  months  it  hasn't  appeared,  you  may  feel  sure 
it  never  will." 

Elsie  sat  down.  With  her  coat  folded  on  her  knees  and 
her  gloved  hands  clasped  upon  it,  she  seemed  an  unhappy 
stranger  in  the  hotel  room.  The  asthenic  sadness  that 
with  women  so  easily  reaches  conclusion  in  weak  tears, 
brought  them  from  her  dull,  wide-opened  eyes.  Nina 
watched  her,  and  the  picture  that  in  spite  of  youth  she 
made  —  one  broken  in  purpose,  wearily  at  sea  —  sent  a 
stab  through  her  heart  of  a  quality  new  to  her. 

"My  poor  dear,  you  have  made  a  mess  of  things !"  she 
cried  in  pain. 

"I  hate  going  with  him  —  to  cheat  him.  He  takes  me 
so  on  faith,  he's  —  so  decent !"  Elsie  muttered,  her  hands 
twisting  over  each  other  in  a  grinding  perplexity.  "I 
don't  see  how  I  can  do  it." 

Nina,  suddenly  very  tired,  was  aware  of  every  year  of 
her  age  as  she  got  slowly  upon  her  feet.  Well,  she  would 
make  one  more  effort  and  if  she  failed  she  would  give  up, 
go  home  to  Percy,  and  to  a  much  needed  gin  and  seltzer. 

"There's  something  I  didn't  speak  of  before  and  that 
you  seem  to  have  forgotten  —  it's  this :  That  letter  makes 
you  out  what  you  never  actually  were  —  De  Burgos's 
mistress.  It's  only  fair  that  you  should  try  to  destroy 
it."  Her  gaze,  with  intent  meaning,  held  Elsie's  into 
which  had  come  the  look  of  one  edging  from  the  unendur- 
able. After  a  pause  she  went  on  winningly :  "And  yet  this 
is  not  your  reason  for  trying  to  get  hold  of  it.  You'll 
be  doing  that  all  for  Robert's  sake  —  nothing  selfish  in 
it!" 

"You  think  not?"  Elsie  flung  back  with  a  stark 
honesty.  "You're  wrong !  Any  bit  of  good  opinion  that's 
mine,  I  want  to  keep.  After  what  I've  been  through 
— "  and  her  bitter  smile  had  corrosive  knowledge,  "oh,  I 
put  a  high  value  on  men's  respect !" 

Somewhere  across  the  sun-baked  roofs  a  church  clock 


The  Next  Corner  191 

struck  six,  and  the  brazen  strokes  on  the  glare  and  dingi- 
ness  had  a  hideous  effect  on  Nina,  as  if  they  were  a 
summons  to  execution. 

"Well,  dearie?"  she  sighed,  her  childish  eyes  grown 
dim,  her  whole  air  jaded.  "Robert  will  be  along  soon 
now.  So  make  up  your  mind." 

Elsie's  lips  moved  desperately.  She  stood  up  and 
slowly  drew  off  her  gloves.  "I'm  going  with  him."  And 
then,  as  her  mother  began  to  cry  from  such  relief  as  she 
had  never  known,  while  muttering,  "Oh,  darling  —  oh, 
darling  — !"  Elsie  spoke  again  quietly  and  with  deep 
conviction,  "But  I'll  pay.  Make  no  mistake!  I'll  pay 
for  cheating.  Something  tells  me  this." 

Nina  thought  it  wise  to  ignore  these  words,  in  fact  to 
avoid  all  further  discussion.  Without  an  instant's  delay 
she  started  Elsie  at  packing  the  valise  and  busied  herself 
with  the  trunk,  while  keeping  up  a  running  chatter  of  her 
past  triumphs  in  Caracas  and  other  South  American 
cities.  When  the  work  was  finished  she  arranged  her  nose 
veil,  pulled  on  her  dogskin  gloves,  and  took  Elsie  into  a 
smothering  embrace. 

"Don't  worry,"  she  advised  in  a  satisfied  and  profoundly 
wise  tone.  "Trust  to  luck !  Be  a  gambler !  If  I  were  in 
your  place  I'd  make  myself  see  my  life  as  a  clear  road 
before  me,  and  I'd  not  worry  for  a  minute  about  this 
trouble  ever  suddenly  coming  around  the  next  corner!" 

She  was  startled  at  feeling  a  hard  tremor  seize 
Elsie,  and  drew  back  to  study  her.  "What  on  earth's  the 
matter?"  she  cried.  "What  did  I  say?  You  look  posi- 
tively terrified!  What  is  it?" 

"Nothing,  nothing.     Don't  let  us  talk  any  more." 

Nina  tripped  off.  She  did  not  want  to  meet  Robert  so 
soon  after  this  intimate  dissension  and  its  mending.  She 
was  also  in  a  hurry  to  carry  her  good  news  to  Percy  and 
plan  a  dinner  for  four  at  Delmonico's  for  the  next  night. 
Moreover,  she  felt  urgent  need  of  her  afternoon  stimulant. 
"God  knows  I've  earned  it,"  she  thought  as  the  taxicab 
rushed  her  uptown. 


192  The  Next  Corner 

Elsie,  alone,  sat  listening  to  every  sound  from  the 
hotel,  an  odd  stillness  around  her  heart.  Robert  would 
arrive  in  a  few  moments.  If  the  letters,  reforwarded  from 
South  America,  had  been  waiting  for  him  at  his  office?  — 
If  among  them  there  had  been  the  gray-blue  square  with 
the  Spanish  stamp?  —  Nina's  words,  with  an  effect  the 
reverse  of  what  she  had  intended,  were  like  a  horrid 
nudge :  The  next  corner!  .  .  .  She  was  not  to  forget  it. 
She  was  not  to  escape  it.  Day  by  day  she  would  have  to 
watch  it.  Even  now  her  eyes  were  on  it,  fixed  as  they 
were  on  the  door  into  the  hall,  waiting  for  it  to  open  to 
give  her  the  first  sight  of  Robert's  face  on  his  return. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

i 

A  FEBRUARY  morning,  very  warm,  yet  full  of  life. 
Capricious  winds  were  abroad ;  they  rippled  the  blue  lake 
of  Valencia,  careened  up  and  down  the  lower  ranges 
of  mountains  enclosing  the  small,  North  Andean  city  of 
the  same  name,  and  over  the  smiling  land  blew  the  thick 
sweetness  of  magnolias  from  gardens  and  the  thin,  sharp 
scent  of  cinchona  shrubs  and  screw  pines  growing  wild. 

One  of  the  loveliest  hours  of  the  day  was  enticingly 
upon  the  hacienda  that  had  been  the  home  of  the  Maury 
family  since  the  preceding  September.  The  many  ser- 
vants, both  negroes  and  mestizos,  had  finished  the  morn- 
ing settling  of  the  house,  and  subdued  sounds  of  labor 
with  snatches  of  syncopated  Spanish  song  floated  from 
the  kitchen  quarters  where  they  were  preparing  the  mid- 
day almuerzo. 

The  patio  had  patches  of  shadow  under  the  galleries 
and  wherever  the  planted  palms  stood  up  like  great  plumes. 
Turkish  rugs  clung  as  if  they  were  thin,  iridescent 
skins  to  the  flagged  space  beside  the  fountain  in  the  center, 
whose  splash  was  a  whispering  song.  There  were  cane 
couches ;  chairs  of  hide  stretched  over  wooden  frames ; 
and  on  one  table,  sheltered  by  a  huge  red  and  white  um- 
brella, books,  a  bowl  of  fruit,  and  embroidery  in  the 
process  of  making  were  scattered. 

It  was  the  hour  when  a  woman  might  well  have  loved 
to  loiter  there,  to  read,  work,  or  dream.  And  yet  the 
young  mistress  of  the  place  was  not  to  be  seen.  Nor 
was  she  ever  visible  there  at  this  time  of  the  day;  nor 
in  her  room ;  nor  indeed  in  the  house  at  all. 

This  thought  was  in  the  mind  of  Miss  Selena  Maury 
as  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  her  eyes  narrowed  and 

193 


194  The  Next  Comer 

glinting  in  a  look  of  reflection.  She  was  Robert's  sister, 
fifteen  years  his  senior,  and  had  the  management  of  "El 
Iris,"  as  the  place  was  called  because  of  its  rainbow  color- 
ing from  trees,  flowers,  pink  walls,  inner  shutters  of 
jade-green  seen  through  the  window  bars,  and  its  pot- 
tiled  roof  of  a  curious  dusty  red. 

Her  invitation  to  be  her  brother's  guest  and  helper 
had  come  about  casually.  With  a  woman  friend,  a  widow 
of  comfortable  means,  she  had  been  for  many  years  one 
of  those  feminine  expatriates  who  travel  tirelessly,  live 
in  trunks,  who  are  met  with  all  over  the  world  and  are 
always  American.  When  this  lifelong  friend  had  died 
during  a  stay  in  near-by  Colombia,  and  had  been  buried 
there,  Robert  had  seen  his  sister's  sudden  loneliness  as  a 
call  for  him  to  comfort  her,  while  at  the  same  time  helping 
himself  and  Elsie.  She  had  lived  much  in  Spanish  and 
South  American  boarding  houses,  spoke  the  language 
fluently,  was  capable,  sensible,  and  he  believed  simple 
and  kindly.  By  installing  her  as  housekeeper  Elsie 
would  be  relieved  of  responsibility  in  a  land  whose  customs 
were  strange  to  her.  She  would  also  have  a  compatriot's 
companionship  during  his  absences  of  three  or  four  days 
at  the  Logrono  mine  that  was  more  than  fifty  miles 
away.  His  subtler  and  more  precious  reason  for  want- 
ing her  was  to  lighten  the  tete-a-tete  between  himself 
and  his  wife  that  could  not  help  becoming  strained  at 
times. 

Elsie  had  been  willing  for  Selena  to  come,  just  as 
she  was  amiably  attentive  to  all  his  suggestions,  —  a  mood 
of  acceptance  that  rarely  varied  and  under  which  he 
was  conscious  of  some  deadness  of  soul.  She  had  not 
been  expectant  of  Miss  Maury's  arrival  which  had  hap- 
pened in  November,  nor  had  she  been  indifferent  to  a 
degree  that  showed  the  smallest  lack  of  courtesy.  Her 
tonelessness,  though,  could  not  be  escaped.  Robert  felt 
that  she  was  with  his  sister  as  she  was  often  with  him, 
shut  off  in  some  subtle  sense  from  the  things  she  moved 
among.  Neither  sullen  nor  inattentive  in  any  way  that 


The  Next  Corner  195 

could  wound  —  for  frequently  he  had  seen  her  rouse  her- 
self to  some  special  act  of  interest  and  kindness  —  he 
still  saw  plainly  that  his  sister  meant  nothing  in  her 
reckoning. 

All  of  this  was  felt  by  Selena  Maury.  But  while 
Robert  was  conscious  of  Elsie's  detachment  with  a  gen- 
erous regret  that  it  had  to  be,  his  sister  from  the  first 
had  resented  it  secretly  and  with  vindictiveness. 

No  one  guessed  that  back  of  her  highly-bred,  small- 
featured  primness  she  was  a  conceited  woman,  that  con- 
ceit was  the  woof  of  her  nature.  Although  she  was  gray, 
frail  and  small,  wore  heavily  lensed  spectacles,  and  from 
leanness  and  rheumatism  gave  the  impression  of  having 
wooden  joints  under  her  austere  clothing  —  all  the  notes 
of  a  woman  grown  old  and  turned  into  a  tolerant  watcher 
of  new  types  and  manners  —  she  was  in  reality  an 
entirely  different  being. 

Miss  Maury  had  been  a  mentor,  a  power  of  a  sort  among 
the  various  collections  of  woman  travellers  among  whom 
she  had  fallen  during  fifteen  years  of  unimaginative 
ambling  over  the  world.  As  she  read  much  and  talked 
with  the  pedant's  labored  clearness,  she  had  been  counted 
very  clever  in  these  various  sewing  circles  on  the  veran- 
dahs of  foreign  pensions;  she  had  a  certain  ironic  wit, 
too,  when  warmed  by  appreciation.  Women  of  her  own 
sort  —  elderly,  detached  —  had  unbosomed  themselves  to 
her  about  large  and  small  difficulties,  asking  her  advice 
as  one  augustly  fitted  to  point  the  way.  And  she  had 
been  used  to  responding  in  positive  and  concise  phrases 
that  rounded  out  her  ultimatum  to  the  smallest  detail. 
Her  ruling  was  generally  accepted.  When  it  was  not, 
her  glacial  disapproval  of  the  offender  could  chill  a 
houseful. 

Elsie's  pointless  kindness  to  her  and  pointed  separa- 
tion from  her  had  quickly  embittered  her,  until  she  had 
come  to  the  apex  of  active  malice.  This  sister-in-law, 
just  from  what  she  was,  young,  popular,  admired  by 
all  their  cordial  and  spontaneously  hospitable  Venezuelan 


196  The  Next  Corner 

neighbors,  and  very  lovely  in  a  way  that  Miss  Maury 
thought  spectacular  —  for  blondes  somehow  conveyed  the 
suggestion  of  immorality  to  her  —  had  made  her  feel  her 
age  in  a  way  that  was  disagreeable.  She  did  not  mind 
age  when  it  meant  power.  She  loathed  it  when  it  made 
her  a  straggler  after  a  procession  that  flashed  past  her 
without  heed  or  need  of  her. 

Today,  as  she  stood  looking  across  the  patio,  she  was 
full  of  unfriendliness  and  exasperation.  She  was  saying 
with  savage  flatness  what  she  had  edged  from  heretofore, 
—  that  she  did  not  like  Elsie ;  did  not  like  her  at  all ;  did 
not  understand  her;  did  not  trust  her. 

Although  Miss  Maury,  with  the  squeamishness  of  the 
ineradicable  vestal,  shrank  always  from  consideration  of 
sex  in  human  relations  —  in  fact,  had  even  dared  to  say 
that  it  was  a  pity  the  Almighty  could  not  have  devised 
some  spiritual  miracle  for  race  continuance  —  she  could 
not  fail  to  see  that  her  brother  was  not  happy  as  a  hus- 
band ;  indeed  was  not  a  husband.  Something  very  serious 
must  have  happened  to  create  this  situation,  and  with 
clannish  devotion  she  felt  sure  the  fault  was  not  Robert's. 
It  was  puzzling,  yet  not  more  so  than  were  other  things, 
small  and  large,  noted  by  her  covertly  vigilant  eyes. 

The  most  important  of  these  was  that  Elsie  left  the 
house  every  morning  an  hour  before  the  midday  meal  to 
meet  Domingo  somewhere  on  his  ride  back  from  the  post- 
office.  She  was  always  brighter  afterward,  at  breakfast, 
than  at  any  other  time.  Still  this  could  not  be  due  en- 
tirely to  her  receiving  secret  letters  by  lying  in  wait 
for  Domingo,  for  having  at  times  questioned  the  man, 
Miss  Maury  had  learned  that  often  when  Elsie  had  re- 
turned especially  refreshed,  there  had  been  no  mail  at 
all  for  her,  not  even  a  post  card. 

The  sense  of  a  hidden  thing  was  becoming  intolerable. 
The  young  woman  was  incomprehensible.  There  was 
something  very  wrong.  And  with  Robert's  good  in  mind 
Miss  Maury  meant  to  discover  what  she  could  about  it. 
She  had  all  the  sanctimonious  qualifications  that  can  twist 


The  Next  Corner  197 

baseness  into  right  for  a  purpose,  so  that  spying  on  her 
part  she  would  call  duty,  and  the  unmasking  of  another's 
weakness  or  sin  a  triumph  of  her  conscientiousness. 

After  remaining  very  still  in  the  doorway  for  about  five 
minutes  she  went  with  a  starchy  rustle  of  her  drab  linen 
skirt  to  the  top  of  the  house,  to  a  room  there  used  by 
Robert  as  a  sort  of  laboratory,  and  shut  the  door.  The 
windows  here  looked  over  the  red,  fluted,  dipped  roof 
toward  the  mountain  road  that  Domingo  must  take  on  his 
return  from  the  town.  Hung  by  a  strap  beside  the  sill 
there  was  a  case  containing  a  pair  of  powerful  field 
glasses.  Miss  Maury's  eyes  under  their  reddened  lids  had 
a  determined  light  in  them  as  she  pushed  open  the  shutters, 
adjusted  the  glasses  to  her  sight,  and  stared  steadily  out. 

She  slowly  moved  them  from  a  straight  direction  to  the 
right,  up  the  distant  mountain  a  little,  then  down  slowly 
and  waveringly.  At  last  they  came  to  a  fixed  pause. 
There  was  something  remindful  of  a  vulture's  claws  about 
the  veined  old  hands  as  they  tightened  on  the  two  leather 
cylinders  and  held  them  for  a  long  time  without  a  tremor. 

Elsie  had  left  the  hacienda  shortly  after  ten.  While 
in  sight  of  the  house  she  had  strolled  as  languidly  as  did 
any  one  of  her  new  Venezuelan  friends  on  the  rare  oc- 
casions when  they  were  induced  to  walk  more  than  a  few 
yards.  She  carried  an  open  book  on  her  arm,  and  under 
a  white  umbrella  lined  with  apple-green  that  stained  her 
fairness  with  a  sea  shimmer,  seemed  easily  to  read,  so 
slowly  did  she  pace. 

At  the  turn  of  the  hill  one  of  the  precipitous 
heights  began,  a  part  of  the  cordillera  that  in  the  far 
distance  became  the  Sierra  Merida,  soaring  there  into 
snow-capped  peaks  that  sometimes  seemed  to  writhe  in 
the  tumultuous  radiance  drenching  them.  From,  this 
spot  and  for  almost  a  mile  she  was  walled  from  the  valley 
where  her  house  stood.  And  once  within  its  shelter  her 
look  and  manner  changed. 

She  closed  the  book  and  went  faster,  her  eyes  steadily 
on  the  perspective  of  the  waving  road.  Having  reached 


198  The  Next  Corner 

one  rise,  her  gaze  swept  the  shallow  curve  downward  and 
then  up  to  the  next  hillock  that  hid  what  lay  beyond. 
She  was  never  made  really  sure  that  this  first  step  of  each 
day  had  been  successfully  taken  until  she  would  see  Do- 
mingo, a  swaying  speck,  his  legs  hanging  low  over  the 
side  of  his  burro,  and  coming  toward  her  on  a  pattering 
canter. 

Often,  when  he  rode  rapidly,  she  would  meet  him  only 
a  half  mile  from  the  house.  Something  had  delayed  him 
to-day,  for  there  was  no  sight  of  him  by  the  time  she  had 
reached  a  spot  where  the  sheltering  elbow  of  the  mountain 
swooped  downward,  and  she  was  left  facing  an  open 
plateau  from  a  road  that  ran  like  a  shelf  against  the  hill 
on  her  other  side.  This  overlooked  several  of  the 
brightly  colored  houses  built  on  sixteenth-century  Span- 
ish models  situated  on  the  town's  outskirts  and  nestling 
in  opposite  coves  of  the  mountains,  her  own  home  among 
them.  She  felt,  however,  safe  from  observation  in  this 
spot ;  it  was  so  distant  from  the  hacienda  that  even  if 
seen,  she  would  appear  no  more  than  a  fly  moving  across 
a  great  statue's  face. 

The  self-absorbed  quiet,  the  absent  gaze  that  were  such 
constant  notes  with  Elsie  were  never  present  during  the 
few  times  of  each  day  when  she  became  this  watcher  in 
ambush.  The  high-stringed  uncertainty  that  kept  her 
frail  and  shadowy-eyed  would  show  as  now:  a  questing 
look  in  the  eyes  grown  darker  under  the  whitish-gold 
hair  blowing  about  her  brow,  her  lips  pressed  so  closely 
together  their  rich  curves  were  often  lost. 

Four  months  had  gone  since  the  August  afternoon  when 
Robert  had  carried  her  away  from  the  shabby  hotel, 
where  she  had  felt  the  derelict's  dull  despair,  to  a  new 
outlook  in  a  flower-filled  suite  at  the  Ritz,  and  then  to 
this  lovely  land  where  easeful  days  were  all  exactly  alike. 
For  a  long  time  on  each  awakening,  one  thought  had 
leaped  before  her  as  a  thing  that  had  waited  by  her  bed 
the  night  through:  Would  the  letter  come  that  day?  — 
And  when?  —  Among  the  heavy  mail  of  the  morning?  — 


The  Next  Corner  199 

Or  would  it  DC  one  of  the  few  that  sometimes  straggled  in 
before  the  afternoon  siesta  and  for  which  she  would 
manage  to  loiter  in  the  entrance  hall  of  the  casa?  Or 
would  it  come  at  sunset?  The  fear  always  followed  that 
something  might  prevent  her  capturing  it.  Conquering 
this,  she  would  then  see  herself  successfully  closing  her 
hand  upon  it,  hiding  it,  and  later,  in  seclusion,  without 
reading  one  of  those  bitterly  regretted  words,  destroying 
it  with  a  throe  of  frantic  joy.  The  whole  had  come  to 
have  the  excitement  that  is  part  of  every  game,  —  the 
craving  to  win. 

Lately  her  suspense  had  lessened;  every  day  the  belief 
strengthened  that  the  letter  she  dreaded  was  lost  conclu- 
sively. But  she  could  not  trust  the  feeling.  She  had  to 
keep  watching.  She  had  to  be  sure. 

And  this  not  because  what  she  had  was  found  satisfy- 
ing. That  she  was  accepting  Robert's  hospitality  under 
false  conditions  often  made  her  wretched.  Often  she  felt 
herself  a  plain  fraud,  when  her  food  would  seem  to  choke 
her,  and  wild  impulses  seize  her  to  end  their  compact, 
to  go  away  and  make  the  struggle  for  life  in  a  clean  in- 
dependence. The  picture  of  the  unaided  fight  along  new 
paths  would  have  a  vitalizing  freshness  that  straightened 
her  spine ;  even  the  thought  of  frustrations  on  the  way  to 
success  would  take  on  a  paradoxical  attractiveness  just 
because  of  their  living  prod  that  would  bring  every  bit 
of  her  into  glowingly  desperate  activity.  Several  times 
she  made  up  her  mind  to  seek  this  liberty ;  once, 
when  Robert  was  absent  for  a  full  week  at  the  mine,  she 
made  ready  to  leave. 

One  thing  had  always  deflected  her  intention,  melting 
her  to  the  miserable  sorrow  for  Robert  that  she  had  felt 
from  the  first  sight  of  him  in  New  York,  —  the  dread 
that  after  she  had  gone,  the  letter  with  its  needless  stabs 
would  reach  him,  that  he  would  know  how  far  from  him 
she  had  gone  on  the  night  whose  dark  ending  so  often 
splashed  up  in  phantasmal  horror  upon  the  peace  about 
her,  would  know  that  her  coming  with  him  to  Valencia 


200  The  Next  Corner 

had  been  on  the  support  of  a  lie,  would  believe  the  lie  to 
have  been  merely  a  transient  and  sordid  accommodation 
for  herself.  A  determination  to  keep  this  pain  from  him 
would  emerge  through  this  tenderness  and  hold  her  in  her 
place,  hoping  for  the  arrival  of  the  thing  whose  secret 
destruction  could  alone  set  her  free. 

What  sort  of  future  awaited  them  she  did  not  know. 
While  Robert  held  to  their  bond,  savagely  silent  and 
neutral,  she  could  feel  that  he  missed  her  as  he  would  miss 
the  sun.  With  her  the  past  remained  dominant.  Some- 
times the  craving  for  the  dead  was  too  heart-piercing, 
pulled  her  into  the  pit  of  sadness  for  days.  Again  she 
would  loathe  and  resent  the  drugged  sweetness  of  her 
useless  life,  its  blessings  all  negations,  —  absence  of  care 
and  striving,  and  also  absence  of  love  and  all  the 
delectable  things  that  belong  to  it  by  which  the  blood 
leaps  and  the  heart  sings.  With  wistful  pangs  she  would 
remember  her  real  self,  the  passionate,  lyric  self  unknown 
to  Robert,  and  that  seemed  to  have  sped  away  on  that 
night  of  dying  moonlight  as  had  Arturo's  soul. 

There  was  still  another  mood;  this  generally  on 
sleepless  nights.  She  had  never  recovered  from  the  shock 
of  those  hours  when  sensation  had  been  a  cataclysm;  it 
had  left  her  nerves  like  loose  wires  that  leap  easily  in 
wrong  directions  and  grow  tangled;  and  when  memory 
of  the  several  sorts  of  contempt  she  had  experienced  at 
Serafin's  hands  would  steal  back  to  her  through  the  dark, 
his  sardonic  smile  a  living  thing,  she  would  moan  feebly 
as  if  she  were  a  wounded  creature  too  weak  to  move.  It 
was  then  that  by  contrast  she  would  clearly  long  to  love 
her  husband  —  to  love  him  really !  —  not  as  she  had, 
with  shy  and  childish  affection  for  what  to  a  great  extent 
was  not  understood. 

And  all  this  time,  deeply  in  her,  mixed  with  this  con- 
fusion —  she  wholly  unconscious  of  it  —  was  Nature's 
big  instinct  that  cannot  die  in  the  woman  meant  for 
motherhood;  in  whom  it  is  dire  need,  especially  after 
she  has  borne  a  child.  This  was  dulled  dissatisfaction  in 


The  Next  Corner  201 

Elsie ;  had  been  there,  dulled  —  while  never  ceasing  to 
strive  toward  inevitable  fulfillment  —  under  all  her  first 
feverish  pursuit  of  pleasure  after  deep  grief,  and  her 
subsequent  emotional  folly. 

Domingo  was  coming.  She  sat  down  on  a  weather- 
stained  stone  seat,  built  against  the  hill,  and  waited.  The 
mestizo's  song  reached  her  first  and  then  the  swift,  small 
beat  of  his  burro's  hoofs. 

He  was  a  good-looking,  brown  youth,  sitting  his  ani- 
mal with  the  gay  air  of  a  boy  on  a  hobbyhorse,  his  teeth 
a  crescent  of  snow  in  a  large  smile.  From  his  hat  of 
brown  plush  to  the  hempen-soled  feet  that  showed  be- 
neath ankle-short,  nankeen  trousers,  he  had  become  all 
radiance  at  the  sight  of  his  mistress.  This  daily  meet- 
ing with  her  on  the  road  pleased  him,  had  the  feel  of  a 
spurious  sort  of  adventure.  Like  Miss  Maury  he  had 
gradually  come  to  sense  some  serious  reason  for  it.  By 
this  time  he  believed  it  had  to  do  with  a  lover  left  behind 
in  the  States  who  adored  the  young  senora  madly  —  as 
who  would  not?  —  and  who  perhaps  was  either  imploring 
her  to  come  to  him  or  threatening  to  arrive  on  the  spot 
and  slay  her  for  her  refusal.  Either  of  these  things  he 
felt  might  reasonably  happen  any  day,  since  his  mistress 
must  be  unhappy.  Ah,  did  he  not  know  this  well?  For 
was  he  not  a  lover  of  Candida  who  was  the  senord's  per- 
sonal maid?  And  had  she  not  told  him  that  never  once 
since  the  Americans  had  come  to  live  at  El  Iris  had  she 
seen  the  master  enter  his  wife's  room,  —  while  his  own 
were  even  on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  with  the  whole 
patio  dividing  them? 

"Buenas  dias,  senora"  came  gaily  from  Domingo,  as 
he  rollicked  up  the  rise  to  her  side. 

"Buenas  dias,  Domingo.  I  might  as  well  look  at  the 
letters  here,"  said  Elsie. 

She  varied  her  request  to  him  each  day,  her  tone  always 
a  careless  one.  They  spoke  in  two  languages  —  Elsie 
haltingly  in  Spanish  which  she  had  been  studying  for 
months  and  an  English  that  Domingo  used,  a  curiously 


202  The  Next  Corner 

lacerated  speech  that  he  had  picked  up  during  his  ser- 
vice with  German-Americans  when  they  had  built  the 
railroad  from  Caracas  to  Valencia. 

"Three  for  you,  senora"  Domingo  said,  as  he  pulled 
open  the  linen  sack  slung  about  his  waist.  "And  one  for 
Senorita  Maury.  There  were  more,  senora.  But  the 
senor  himself  stopped  at  the  post-office  this  morning  early 
and  took  away  his  own." 

Domingo  felt  that  it  must  have  been  some  trick  of  the 
sun  through  the  green  lining  of  her  umbrella  that  made  his 
mistress's  face  seem  suddenly  to  change  so  oddly.  She 
was  always  pale  in  a  way  he  thought  angelic  —  and  that 
no  amount  of  the  thick,  native  powder  could  impart  to 
his  brown  Candida  —  but  now  she  looked  as  deathlike 
as  her  white  linen  gown;  and  a  question,  after  flashing 
up  in  her  eyes  for  a  second,  had  gone  out,  leaving  them 
dull,  while  they  remained  fixed  beyond  him  in  the  direction 
of  the  town. 

"There  must  be  a  mistake,"  she  said  in  a  heavy  way. 
The  hand  which  held  her  own  letters  had  fastened  so 
fiercely  about  them  the  knuckles  were  stretched  and  glis- 
tening. "Senor  Maury  was  not  expected  in  from  the  mine 
until  to-morrow.  Are  you  sure  he  was  in  the  town  —  at 
the  post-office?  What  did  they  tell  you  there?" 

"It  was  Placido  Garcia  that  I  saw,  senora.  He  said 
that  Senor  Maury  was  in  a  big  motor  car  with  another 
gentleman,  that  he  had  taken  his  own  letters  and  had  gone 
away.  I  did  not  ask  Placido  more,  but  felt  sure  that  the 
senor  had  not  gone  home  or  he  would  have  taken  all  the 
others  for  the  house,"  and  Domingo  ended  with  a  flowing, 
conclusive  shrug. 

"I  see.  It's  all  right,"  Elsie  said,  the  tone  seeming  re- 
lieved. "You  can  tell  Senorita  Maury  to  expect  the  senor 
for  almuerzo.  No  doubt  he  will  arrive  for  that,  after  he 
has  attended  to  some  business." 

With  a  sweep  of  the  brown  plush  hat  Domingo  pattered 
off  and  Elsie  was  alone.  She  looked  carelessly  over  the 
three  letters,  saw  that  one  was  from  a  Fifth  Avenue  book 


The  Next  Corner  203 

shop,  another  from  one  of  her  few  girlhood  friends  married 
to  an  army  man  and  living  at  a  post  in  Arizona,  and  the 
third,  a  heavy  one,  from  her  mother. 

Nina's  letters  were  always  superficial.  She  ran  no  risk 
by  writing  even  one  word  in  the  most  veiled  way  touching 
the  hidden  scar  in  her  daughter's  life;  never  one  to  show 
that  she  knew  of  any  jar  or  shadow  in  the  present  associ- 
ation of  Elsie  and  her  husband.  She  also  had  a  way  of 
enclosing  newspaper  clippings  of  fashions  and  plays,  and 
sometimes  the  details  of  a  murder  or  divorce  interesting 
New  York. 

After  one  glance  which  proved  this  letter  no  different 
from  former  ones  —  a  lot  of  chatter  of  incidental  things 
that  any  one  might  safely  read  —  and  that  showed  the 
bulkiness  to  be  due  to  some  columns  cut  from  a  newspaper, 
Elsie,  without  reading  either,  folded  them  together  and 
replaced  them  in  the  big  envelope.  With  the  letters  on 
her  lap,  as  she  sat  back  bathed  in  the  umbrella's  green 
glitter,  the  chill  that  had  struck  her  with  Domingo's 
news,  and  that  had  been  held  back,  seized  her  again.  And 
again  she  looked  toward  Valencia. 

This  was  the  first  time  she  had  missed  seeing  all  the 
mail  ahead  of  either  Robert  or  Miss  Maury.  Her  suc- 
cess up  to  the  present  moment  had  been  uncanny,  for  ill- 
ness or  too  bad  weather  or  some  other  mischance  might 
so  easily  have  frustrated  her  vigilance.  So  to-day  she 
had  her  first  taste  of  the  peculiarly  toothed  suspense 
that  never  comes  from  visible  danger,  but  comes  only  from 
the  shrouded  and  suggested  thing. 

A  mind  picture  that  had  a  photographic  clearness 
brought  an  odd  stillness  about  her  heart:  She  saw  her 
husband  in  Valencia's  post-office,  in  his  hand  the  gray- 
blue  letter  sealed  by  Arturo's  ring  which  now  hung  in 
secrecy  on  a  chain  and  close  to  her  heart.  At  first  there 
was  only  surprise  as  he  studied  the  evidence  of  its  long 
journey  —  soilure,  its  many  addresses,  the  first  post- 
mark probably  from  Bilbao  in  July,  its  Spanish  stamp. 
He  opened  it  with  that  boyish  eagerness  that  could  so 


204  The  Next  Corner 

charmingly  at  the  most  unexpected  times  sweep  away  his 
reserve.  And  with  the  reading  she  saw  him  frown  at  first 
in  startled  pain;  saw  his  eyes  harden  as,  slowly,  to  the 
strong  face  that  could  be  so  kind,  a  look  of  stunned  and 
contemptuous  knowledge  came,  —  the  look  that  never 
would  leave  his  secret  thoughts  of  her. 

One  of  those  convulsions  that  imagined  disasters  can 
give  went  through  her,  ghostly  things  that  move  through 
one  on  a  stabbing  breath.  Her  umbrella  sank  backward 
as  her  face  turned  to  rest  against  her  arm  and  remained 
so  for  a  moment  until  the  surrender  of  will  to  destiny 
brought  its  uninspiring  peace.  If  this  disclosure  had  to 
come,  it  would  come.  Something  outside  of  her  and  above 
her,  before  which  she  was  absolutely  defenseless,  would  in 
the  end  decide  whether  or  not  this  shadow  of  her  own  act 
would  turn  some  corner  of  her  life  and  face  her  with  its 
relentless  smile.  The  decision  was  out  of  her  hands. 

She  started  up.  As  she  turned  to  go  home,  the  haci- 
enda was  at  its  plainest  before  her,  and  almost  as  if  al- 
ready she  were  a  stranger,  having  left  it  forever,  she  stood 
still  and  fixed  a  deep  gaze  on  its  colorful  beauty.  Al- 
most on  the  instant  her  look  changed,  —  for  the  house 
seemed  balefully  watching  her.  Yes,  from  a  window  that 
she  knew  belonged  to  Robert's  laboratory  she  saw  two 
great  eyes,  a  greenish  blaze  in  them  as  the  sunlight  caught 
them,  and  they  were  fastened  upon  her.  She  could  not 
imagine  what  they  could  be;  could  only  stare  back  at 
them.  And  as  she  stood  so,  with  her  lips  parted,  they 
vanished. 

The  mystified  look  left  her  as  she  recalled  the  field 
glasses  that  hung  by  that  window.  Once,  through  them, 
she  had  watched  the  progress  of  the  aeroplane  that 
Robert's  mining  company  had  experimented  with  for  use 
over  the  most  impassable  parts  of  the  mountains.  Then 
had  Robert  reached  home?  And  had  he  watched  her? 
This  was  so  unlike  what  he  would  be  apt  to  do  that  she 
was  left  uncertain,  unnerved.  Unless  he  had  come  into 
possession  of  her  secret!  Ah,  then  he  might  watch  her 


The  Next  Corner  205 

so,  hating  her  perhaps?  Nothing  else  seemed  to  explain 
it. 

A  pulse  was  beating  heavily  in  her  head,  her  feet  and 
hands  were  cold.  She  summoned  courage,  and  with  the 
look  of  unrest  that  hovers  on  wildness,  went  back  along 
the  road  that  led  to  the  hacienda.  This  might  be  the  last 
time  she  would  walk  toward  it.  To-morrow  might  see  her 
leaving  it  —  and  Robert  —  forever. 

Still  —  and  the  familiar  suspense  began  its  nibbling  — 
the  letter  might  not  have  come  to-day;  perhaps  she  felt 
this  sick  fear  without  cause. 

It  was  not  being  sure  that  was  racking.  Oh,  horrible, 
horrible,  this  never  being  sure! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

CANDIDA  was  crossing  the  patio  as  Domingo  entered  it. 
She  was  a  brown-gold  mestizo,  very  young  but  large.  The 
Spanish  in  her  showed  in  the  diffused,  warm  grace  with 
which  she  moved  and  in  her  expressive  hands,  while  her 
Indian  heritage  was  plain  in  the  coarse  strands  of  soot- 
like  hair  and  her  hawk's  glance  that  only  softened  when 
her  heart  was  stirred,  as  when  it  rested  in  longing  on 
Domingo. 

Because  these  two  were  lovers  Miss  Maury  frowned  on 
any  talk  or  meetings  between  them  during  the  working 
hours ;  it  irritated  her  even  to  catch,  en  route,  the  ardent 
glances  they  flung  to  each  other  over  her  head.  They 
seemed  obedient  automatons  to  her  will,  whereas  out- 
wardly obsequious  they  were  secretly  impudent,  and 
kissed  all  the  more  when  they  could,  because  they  hated 
her. 

"The  old  cat  is  coming."  Candida  said  this  from  the 
corner  of  her  motionless  lips  while  carrying  on  her  head, 
with  a  beautiful  balance,  a  tray  bearing  Elsie's  sun- 
bleached  and  lacy  underclothes.  "Don't  say  that  the 
senora  did  not  meet  you  on  the  way,  my  beloved  angel, 
for  I  saw  the  old  eagle  with  her  accursed  eyes  glued  to 
those  glasses  in  the  senor's  upstairs  room,  and  it  is  my 
belief  that  the  devil's  old  cat  saw  the  senora  talking  to 
you  and  did  not  like  it.  Her  mouth  looks  more  than  ever 
like  the  iron  mousetrap  in  the  kitchen." 

"Little  heart,  in  the  very  center  of  my  big  heart !"  was 
Domingo's  answer  in  a  thrilling  whisper. 

"Admired  of  my  soul,  my  heaven  of  whom  I  dreamed 
last  night !"  Candida  replied  with  a  bathing  glance  of  the 
most  overwhelming  love  as  she  swayed  on  with  her  head 

206 


The  Next  Corner  207 

burden  to  Elsie's  big  bedroom  just  as  Miss  Maury  stepped 
from  the  middle  door. 

"Senorita,"  said  Domingo,  his  plush  hat  in  one  hand,  as 
he  extended  the  single  letter  with  the  other. 

Miss  Maury,  while  giving  a  coldly  comprehensive  glance 
after  Candida,  took  it,  and  said  acidly,  "Nothing  but 
this?" 

"I  met  Senora  Maury  and  gave  her  — " 

"All  the  others!"  she  interrupted  with  thin-toned  em- 
phasis. 

"No,  senorita,  only  her  own.  Senor  Maury  already 
has  his.  He  was  at  the  post-office  this  morning." 

This  interested  and  surprised  Miss  Maury  so  much  she 
listened  in  silence  while  Domingo  explained  fully. 

"So  Senora  Maury  said  the  senor  would  therefore  be 
at  home  for  alimierzo,  and  I  was  to  tell  you." 

"Send  the  cook  to  me  here,"  Miss  Maury  snapped. 
"Put  on  your  white  clothes,"  she  added,  as  he  began  to 
move  away,  "and  try  to  set  the  table  to-day  without  mak- 
ing your  usual  absurd  mistakes.  You  can  do  this  if  you 
keep  your  eyes  and  your  thoughts  on  your  work." 

"Si,  senorita,"  Domingo  agreed  with  lamblike  docility, 
turned  his  back  on  her  and  pursued  his  way  with  his 
tongue  stuck  out  stiffly  in  humorous  disdain  of  her  and  her 
authority,  her  ugliness,  flat-chestedness,  and  what  was, 
to  him,  the  tragedy  of  her  fifty  odd  years  unsweetened  by 
the  love  of  a  man. 

Elsie  entered  shortly  aft«r.  As  she  pulled  off  her  white 
muslin  sun  hat,  Miss  Maury  was  struck  by  the  hard  sort 
of  quiet  in  her  face,  like  the  hush  before  a  storm  breaks, 
and  by  something  watchful  in  her  eyes  as  they  moved 
slowly  around  the  patio  to  rest  at  last  in  a  waiting  way  on 
the  steps  that  led  up  to  the  left  gallery  beyond  which  was 
Robert's  room. 

"She  looks  —  queer.  She's  had  news  to-day  that's  un- 
settled her  —  that's  sure !"  Miss  Maury  was  thinking, 
while  with  a  fussiness  that  was  constitutional  she  re- 
arranged unnecessarily  every  one  of  the  various  objects 


208  The  Next  Corner 

i 

on  the  table.  "Do  you  think  these  long  walks  every  morn- 
ing—  never  missing  one  —  agree  with  you,  Elsie?  You 
look  exhausted,"  was  what  she  said. 

Elsie  had  heard  this  so  often  and  was  at  the  moment  so 
engrossed  with  her  own  suspense  that  without  any  inten- 
tion of  being  rude,  she  ignored  it.  "Have  you  seen 
Robert?"  she  asked,  still  looking  aside  at  the  gallery 
that  held  his  room. 

"Where  would  I  see  him?"  Miss  Maury  retorted,  the 
resentment  she  would  have  put  into  very  different  words 
had  she  dared  going  into  the  question. 

"He  hasn't  come !"  A  full  breath  of  relief  left  Elsie,  as 
with  the  back  of  her  hand  she  lifted  the  moist  tangle  of 
hair  from  her  brows.  "The  sun  is  so  warm  to-day  —  isn't 
it?  Funny  to  think  this  is  February!"  In  a  meaningless 
way,  while  her  thoughts  kept  running  along  the  path  of 
her  anxiety,  she  drew  the  folded  newspaper  from  her 
mother's  letter.  "And  there  may  be  a  blizzard  blocking 
traffic  in  New  York !" 

After  an  uncertain  pause,  and  trailing  the  closed 
green-white  umbrella  beside  her,  she  crossed  to  her 
own  room. 

Miss  Maury  was  about  to  call  out  in  the  over-polite 
voice  of  criticism  that  she  had  forgotten  her  hat,  signi- 
fying that  the  patio  was  not  the  place  for  scattered  wear- 
ing apparel,  when  she  saw  that  for  all  her  opening  of  the 
letter,  Elsie  had  also  left  it  with  the  folded  paper  on 
top  of  it.  A  thought  came  to  Miss  Maury  as  she  noted 
them.  A  thought;  a  plan..  She  waited.  Her  hand  stole 
forward,  its  crookedness  from  rheumatism  giving  it  the 
look  of  rapacity  that  belongs  to  talons,  and  pulled  the 
embroidery  so  that  it  covered  both.  Later,  if  they 
were  completely  forgotten  —  then  —  well  —  it  would  be 
easy,  with  fair  play  to  Robert  in  mind  as  part  of  her 
duty,  and  if  she  could  do  so  with  safety  — 

She  did  not  clearly  finish  even  to  herself,  but  her  mouth 
was  tightened,  and  she  felt  strong  in  righteousness.  She 
would  have  been  the  most  amazed  of  women  if  illumination 


The  Next  Corner  209 

had  come  to  her  that  to  a  detective  her  tactics  would  have 
been  the  familiar  ones  of  a  slick  shoplifter  who  first  lo- 
cates what  she  means  to  steal,  retires,  returns,  plays  with 
her  intention  as  a  cat  with  a  mouse  until  she  sees  a  secure 
moment  for  making  off  with  her  loot. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  after  sitting  on  the  further  and 
sheltered  side  of  the  table,  her  needle  darting  up  and  down, 
Miss  Maury  had  managed  to  accomplish  her  purpose, 
and  knew  what  Elsie  as  yet  did  not  —  every  word  of 
Nina's  letter;  every  word  of  the  account  set  forth  in  the 
newspaper.  For  the  former  she  had  only  contempt;  its 
babble  of  frivolous  things  was  eloquent  of  the  flighty 
little  singer  as  she  remembered  her  at  Robert's  marriage. 
But  the  story  told  in  print,  while  it  made  nothing  plain 
to  her  —  for  there  was  not  a  name  in  it  that  she  had  ever 
heard  before  —  created  a  picture  of  prodigality,  sin 
and  doom  that  brought  a  ferment  of  possibilities  and  ques- 
tions to  her  mind. 

Who  was  this  Marques  de  Burgos  whose  murder  was 
so  vividly  described?  Had  the  mother,  or  daughter,  or 
both  of  them  known  him  in  the  dissolute  world  of  which 
the  article  spoke?  If  so,  why  had  Nina  failed  to  write 
a  word  in  her  letter  concerning  his  dreadful  death?  Had 
she,  perhaps,  reasons  —  good  reasons  —  for  thinking  it 
wisest  to  place  only  the  public  announcement  of  it  before 
her  daughter?  Or,  even  more  likely,  had  they  known  the 
woman  who  had  been  his  companion,  and  who  had  man- 
aged to  slip  without  scandal  from  the  situation  as  one 
might  escape  at  the  last  moment  from  the  hangman's 
noose?  Was  this  creature,  described  as  a  blonde  —  and 
by  this  convincingly  meretricious  to  Miss  Maury  —  one 
of  their  own  soulless,  light-minded  intimates? 

At  this  last  query  a  feeling  tore  through  her  that  made 
her  sit  back,  breathless.  Following  it  the  malice  in  her 
freshened,  a  sense  of  ascendancy  warmed  her  pleasantly. 
The  blonde  woman !  The  woman  whose  fairness  had,  from 
the  description,  been  conspicuous,  like  Elsie's !  Suppose? 
.  .  .  The  thought,  when  fully  faced,  was  for  a  moment 


210  The  Next  Corner 

overpowering,  then  seized  her  with  more  force.  If  in- 
deed this  had  been  Elsie's  self,  how  completely  it  ex- 
plained all  that  was  mysterious  about  her,  —  her  preoc- 
cupation, daily  uneasiness,  her  unfailing  watchfulness 
of  the  mails  in  which  she  felt  some  news  might  come  to 
unmask  her.  Of  course!  And  if  it  were  true,  how  it 
made  visible  the  cause  of  her  nervousness  that  very  morn- 
ing, for  she  must  be  conscious  that  to  one  who  knew 
details  of  her  Paris  life  during  the  past  June  —  as  did 
Robert,  no  doubt  —  exposure  lurked  in  the  word-picture 
given  of  the  woman  who  had  played  her  disgraceful  part 
in  this  published  tragedy. 

It  seemed  almost  too  horrible  to  believe.  She  did  not 
fully  rest  on  her  suspicion.  And  yet  —  and  yet  —  ?  As 
a  sunbeam  will  dart  about  a  dark  and  littered  corner,  dis- 
closing and  then  shutting  off  its  confusion,  the  thought 
danced  before  Miss  Maury's  excited  eyes.  Sometimes  it 
struck  confusingly  on  her  sight  as  if  mocking  her.  Her 
mouth  only  shut  the  more  fixedly  and  she  was  as  surely 
on  its  trail  as  when  with  a  folded  wet  towel  she  tracked  a 
mosquito,  to  strike  at  last,  hard  and  successfully. 

When  Elsie  entered  her  bedroom,  Candida  was  there 
putting  away  the  fresh  clothes.  She  did  this  with  the 
impassioned  sort  of  interest  that  she  gave  to  the  care  of 
all  dainty  and  luxurious  things.  As  she  worked,  the  gold 
hoops  in  her  ears  rocked  to  her  supple  swaying,  her  tawny 
fingers,  glossily  mouse-colored  on  the  under  side,  flickered 
to  their  flexible  tips  with  something  of  the  adoration  of  a 
bee  as  it  circles  in  anticipation  above  a  flower  before  dart- 
ing down  upon  it. 

"In  some  earlier  existence  I  believe  Candida  was  a  pam- 
pered, extravagant  princess,"  Elsie  had  once  said  to 
Robert,  "and  of  course  so  very  wicked  that  she's  now 
being  punished  by  this  dark  skin  and  servitude.  She  makes 
a  fetich  of  luxury  —  clothes  and  scent  and  jewelry  — 
and  can't  resist  helping  herself  to  whatever  she  fancies  on 
my  toilet  stand,  taking  small  and  steady  nibbles  the  way 
a  kitten's  paw  keeps  darting  out  to  grab  a  spool.  I've 


The  Next  Corner  211 

walked  in  upon  her  several  times  when  she's  had  lumps  of 
my  powder  sticking  to  her  nose  and  fairly  reeking  with 
my  'illusion  of  lilies.'  She  almost  fainted  at  being 
caught.  Poor  Candida !  Fancy  being  born  with  her  mad 
thirst  for  beauty  and  pleasure  and  condemned  to  the  fate 
of  a  servant  —  a  mestizo!" 

Elsie  liked  the  girl  sincerely  and  had  her  confidence. 
She  would  advise  her  about  her  lover;  tried  to  check  her 
passion  for  the  lottery  which,  with  other  gambling,  took 
a  good  part  of  her  wages ;  and  gave  her  presents  of  some 
of  her  prettiest  clothes  when  only  slightly  worn.  She  did 
not  know  of  the  girl's  detestation  of  Miss  Maury  as 
nothing  had  heretofore  come  about  by  which  she  could 
let  down  the  shutters  of  her  pretended  respect.  When  to- 
day she  was  asked  a  question  that  gave  her  a  chance  to 
inform  her  dear  senora  of  the  older  woman's  dislike  and 
suspicion,  a  glory  came  into  her  dusky  face. 

"It  was  you,  Candida,  that  I  saw  looking  through  the 
—  the  — "  Elsie  had  to  illustrate  the  field  glass.  "  —  you 
know?  —  from  the  senor's  window  upstairs?"  With  this 
she  sat  down  in  the  room's  central  shadow  and  clasped 
her  hands. 

Candida  had  the  emptied  tray  under  her  arm.  She 
poised  her  neck  with  a  touch  of  ophidian  grace  that  lifted 
her  lovely  chin,  and  as  a  sign  of  emphatic  negation 
wagged  the  pliable  index  finger  of  her  right  hand. 

"Not  I,  senora.  It  was  Senorita  Maury.  She  searched 
the  house  for  you,  and  then  she  went  upstairs.  I  even 
took  off  my  alpargatas  so  that  I  could  follow  her  without 
a  sound.  She  opened  the  shutters  and  stood  up  there  a 
long  time,  looking  through  the  glasses,  and  I  knew  she 
was  watching  you  over  on  the  mountain  road." 

Elsie  understood  most  of  this  rapid,  exclamatory  flow. 
Selena?  A  new  disquiet  sent  a  chill  over  her  flesh,  much 
like  the  feeling  one  has  on  slipping  where  one  had  antici- 
pated dryness  and  safety. 

"You  speak  very  queerly,  Candida.  I  do  not  like  it. 
How  did  you  know  that  Senorita  Maury  was  watching 


212  The  Next  Corner 

me?"  Elsie  asked,  reproof  in  the  steady  gaze  she  kept  on 
the  girl.  "You  must  be  mistaken." 

"I  knew  it  by  the  way  she  looked,"  she  purred.  "Oh, 
but  it  was  terrible  —  as  if  she  had  just  taken  a 
dose  of  quinine  water.  It  is  the  way  she  often  looks 
at  you,  sweet  senora,  when  you  are  not  thinking  of  her 
at  all  —  " 

"Candida !"  broke  from  Elsie  warningly. 

"Ah,  excuse  —  dear  senora,  please !  —  but  it  is  the 
truth.  I  think  Senorita  Maury  does  not  like  you  because 
you  are  young,  so  beautiful  —  not  like  her !"  Candida 
continued  softly  but  with  resolution.  "She  does  not  like 
anything  that  is  sweet  and  nice  —  like  love  and  being 
young.  So  neither  does  she  like  me  or  Domingo,  who 
worship  so  much  and  wish  to  marry.  And  I?  I  do  not 
like  her.  And  Domingo?  —  He,  too,  does  not  like  her. 
Never,  never!  Not  so  much  as  the  nail  on  his  little 
finger.  Nunca  —  nadissimo!" 

"Never  speak  so  again  of  the  senorita!  You  may  go," 
Elsie  said  in  the  low  tone  of  one  deeply  disappointed  and 
with  a  look  of  reproach. 

"Si,  senora,"  Candida  made  a  suave  gesture  with  her 
disengaged  hand,  bowed  gravely  and  walked  in  her  waving 
way  through  the  jade-colored  doors  to  the  gallery. 

Elsie  remained  sunk  in  thought,  a  slack,  childish  droop 
to  her  figure.  Knowledge  of  this  antagonism,  added  to 
her  speculation  about  Robert,  gave  her  the  feeling  of 
being  at  the  mercy  of  an  alien  element,  close  to  the  pull 
of  an  undertow.  The  grim  things  in  the  past  that  had 
gone  to  the  structure  of  the  present  moment  moved  be- 
fore her,  while  her  hearing  was  a  sentry  alert  for  the 
sound  of  the  motor  that  would  tell  her  Robert  had  come 
to  quench  or  confirm  her  dread. 

It  was  so  that  Miss  Maury,  after  leaving  the  patio, 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her.  Through  the  partially  opened 
door  that  gave  upon  the  central  hall  there  was  just  space 
for  the  picture  Elsie  made  to  show  as  a  gold  and  white 
patch  in  the  middle  dusk  of  the  great  room.  And  it  was 


The  Next  Corner  213 

so  Miss  Maury  had  seen  her  often,  without  being  noted 
herself,  generally  in  the  brief  twilight  when  waiting  for 
dinner,  —  motionless,  dreaming,  with  the  look  of  one 
drugged  and  packed  to  the  lips  with  something  of  which 
she  never  spoke. 

Robert  did  not  appear  for  almuerzo  although  it  was 
delayed  a  half  hour  in  expectancy  of  his  arrival. 

The  morning  of  fierce  sunlight,  unseasonably  hot  for 
February,  with  one  of  the  rapid  changes  of  weather  usual 
to  the  place,  had  become  still  hotter,  but  with  the  sun  gone 
and  replaced  by  a  sulphur-green  gloom  that  blanched 
everything  under  it.  Accompanying  this  the  dry  wind 
called  catias  gained  in  force.  A  whining  cry  at  first, 
this  became  a  snarl,  then  deep-toned  lament  and  all  to  an 
accompaniment  of  solid  gusts  that  beat  on  the  house  until 
it  seemed  to  be  a  drum  resounding  to  unearthly  blows. 

Elsie  had  experienced  the  catias  a  few  times  before  and 
always  with  a  sense  of  sadness  and  bodily  weariness.  It 
never  failed  to  recall  the  appalling  sounds  of  the  mountain 
hurricane  at  El  Miradero  that  had  mixed  with  her  first 
guilt  and  terror  as  the  ecstacy  of  love  for  Arturo  had 
overwhelmed  her.  There  was  the  added  depression  to- 
day of  having  to  eat  her  breakfast  indoors  and  alone 
with  Miss  Maury.  She  felt  a  distaste  for  food  and  forced 
herself  to  swallow  some  of  the  sancoche  de  gallina 
—  a  rich  stew  of  chicken  and  herbs  —  since  the  business 
of  eating  helped  to  lighten  the  almost  steady  silence 
that  hung  between  them.  When  at  last  she  could  rise 
she  had  to  hide  a  dejected  yawn. 

For  a  moment  she  lingered  at  the  window  to  look  out  at 
the  patio,  emptied  of  its  furnishings  and  full  of  an  un- 
canny, quick-silvered  glitter.  "Isn't  that  a  dreadful 
sky  ?"  she  murmured  heavily.  "Tragic  —  tormented  — 
the  sort  of  sky  that  must  have  been  over  Calvary !" 

Miss  Maury  gave  her  a  frowning  stare.  "You  are  so 
fond  of  using  sensational  expressions,"  she  said  with 
thin-lipped  distinctness.  "Was  it  fashionable  —  in 
Paris  —  to  be  flippant  about  sacred  things?" 


214  The  Next  Corner 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  flippant !" 

Elsie  swung  about,  meaning  to  try  amiably  to  win  the 
woman  to  better  understanding  of  her,  when  before  Miss 
Maury's  woodenness,  fixedness  and  narrowness  from  heel 
to  head  the  task  towered  up  as  hopeless. 

"As  the  lightning's  beginning  I'll  take  my  siesta  in  the 
library.  I  can  darken  that  better  than  any  of  the  rooms 
on  the  galleries.  I  hope  Robert  will  wait  somewhere  until 
the  wind  dies  down,  but  if  he  should  come,  Selena,  will 
you  please  call  me?"  And  she  went  out,  a  reckless  sort 
of  hopelessness  mixing  all  through  her  with  a  feeling  of 
lethargy. 

Her  hand  was  on  the  banister  to  mount  to  the  library 
when  she  changed  her  mind  and  stopped  before  a  crepe- 
curtained  corner  that  held  a  divan;  it  was  a  little  place, 
much  like  a  Pullman  sleeper.  To  lie  down  in  this  nook 
in  the  heart  of  the  house,  with  no  window  at  all  from 
which  the  lightning  might  be  seen,  was  an  impulse  to  be 
obeyed.  With  relief  she  slipped  behind  the  curtains, 
pulled  them  together  and  settled  herself  on  the  couch  in 
the  luxuriously  coiled  way  natural  to  women  and  cats. 
Almost  at  once  she  sank  into  a  daytime  sleep  that  from 
the  oppression  of  the  storm  had  the  weight  of  a  narcotic. 

This  seemed  not  to  have  lasted  more  than  a  few  moments 
when  she  found  herself  gazing  with  bewilderment  up 
through  the  shadowy  space  at  the  metal  rings  that  held 
the  curtains  and  v/as  conscious  of  listening.  Unless  she 
had  just  come  out  of  a  dream  that  still  held,  she  had 
heard  Robert  say  her  name  in  an  angry,  ringing,  and 
surprised  way.  She  felt  herself  whiten  as  she  started  to 
her  elbow,  her  muscles  hard.  No  dream?  He  had 
spoken.  She  was  hearing  him  again. 

"Elsie?"  This  with  compressed  and  enraged  unbelief. 
"You  are  saying  these  things  of  her  —  to  me? 
Se]°"°, !  —  "  A  cup  rattled  on  a  saucer,  a  chair  rasped 
the  terra-cotta  floor. 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  Robert.  Give  me  a  chance 
to  explain.  You've  always  been  so  headstrong  and  so 


The  Next  Corner  215 

ready  to  misjudge  me!  Yes  —  there  are  a  few  things  I've 
noticed  that  I  think  you  ought  to  know  about  and  for 
your  own  good  —  " 

"My  good!"  he  mocked  furiously.  "That's  the  sort  of 
ointment  you've  put  on  every  disagreeable  act  of  yours 
as  far  back  as  my  childhood,  Selena.  Leave  my  good 
out  of  the  question.  I'll  attend  to  it."  The  conclusion 
had  a  stormy  serenity. 

"But  when  I've  seen  Elsie  wildly  anxious  about  the 
letters  —  " 

"I  tell  you  —  " 

"When,"  Selena  rasped  on  in  venom  now  desperate, 
"from  the  most  casual  watching  of  her  I  can  see  —  " 

There  was  the  sound  of  the  chair  being  flung  across 
the  flooring.  "And  who  told  you  to  watch?"  Robert  de- 
manded in  fury.  "Damn  all  this !  Selena  —  are  you 
crazy?" 

"You'll  kindly  not  curse,"  Selena  breathed  in  a  tone 
of  trembling  wrath.  "That's  something  new  for  you!" 

"Sorry.  But  you  drive  me  frantic.  I  come  home  and  you 
begin  by  insinuating  that  you  believe  my  wife  is  hoping 
for  and  watching  for  letters  from  some  man  that  I'm  not 
to  know  about  —  that  she  lives  in  a  dream  with  thoughts 
that  worry  her,  and  that  you've  been  spying  on  her.  One 
would  think  you  the  mistress  of  this  house  and  she 
here  to  fall  in  with  your  ideas  and  your  rules.  I  can  see, 
too,  from  your  face  and  manner  and  from  every  word 
you've  said  that  you  don't  like  Elsie.  No,  you  don't  like 
my  wife!  This  is  a  shock  to  me.  I  knew  when  I  asked 
you  here  that  your  views  were  different  from  hers,  but  I 
supposed  that  life  and  age  had  softened  you,  made  you 
more  tolerant  than  you  used  to  be.  I  was  wrong.  Now 
I  know  I've  been  unjust  to  Elsie  —  most  unjust  —  leav- 
ing her  here  alone  with  you,  as  I  have,  even  though  it 
was  necessary.  She  must  see  how  you  feel  toward 
her  —  she  can't  help  knowing  it  —  although,  unlike  you, 
she's  carried  no  talcs,  has  never  said  a  word  about  it. 
Yes,  she  must  be  unhappy.  My  God,  Selena,  you  want 


216  The  Next  Corner 

to  wake  up !  Things  are  going  to  be  different  here  from 
to-day  on !" 

There  was  a  heavy  silence.  Elsie  could  hear  her  heart 
like  a  resounding  something  flung  back  and  forth  on  the 
push  of  her  uneven  breath.  Relief  was  a  brightness 
through  her,  knowing  from  Robert's  words  that  he  had 
not  received  the  letter  that  morning.  And  with  this, 
pulses  of  tenderness  seemed  to  have  come  to  life  and  be 
quivering  all  over  her  body  because  he  was  defending  her. 
How  his  flawless,  ardent  truth  burned  away  the  secret 
fungus  of  Selena's  rancor !  For  he  was  true !  Yes, 
that  was  his  code — and  how  unlike  what  her  own  had 
become !  —  to  be  honest,  to  be  fearless,  so  that  the  most 
difficult,  the  darkest  thing  he  faced  could  not  help  but  be 
conquered. 

Her  satisfaction  vanished  like  a  wisp  of  smoke,  and 
apprehension  spread  through  her  with  Selena's  next  com- 
posed yet  stolidly  resentful  words : 

"Well,  at  any  rate  —  read  this.  You  may  know  the 
man  it's  about  and  understand  it  —  all  of  it !" 

"What  is  it?"  Robert  asked  curtly. 

"Take  it.  It's  from  a  New  York  newspaper  and  came 
to  Elsie  this  morning  in  a  letter  from  her  mother." 

"How  do  you  know  all  this  ?" 

"Elsie  forgot  it  —  left  it  on  the  table  in  the  patio. 
When  the  wind  began  and  I  carried  in  the  things  from  the 
table,  I  glanced  at  it,  hoping  it  was  some  news  of  the  war." 

"And  when  you  found  it  wasn't  —  you  read  it  just  the 
same." 

"There  seemed  no  harm  in  reading  what  was  in  a  news- 
paper! Afterward  I  felt  it  might  be  important  for  you 
to  know  about  it  as  well  as  Elsie.  Take  it." 

"I  don't  want  it."  There  was  a  rustling  as  of  a  paper 
being  flung  down.  "If  Elsie  had  wished  you  to  read  it 
she'd  have  given  it  to  you.  Put  it  with  her  letter  in  her 
bedroom." 

"But  Robert  — ' 

"Do  it  now,  please." 


The  Next  Corner  217 

"You  are  determined — ?" 

"Do  it  now." 

Elsie  heard  the  froufrou  of  Selena's  stiff  linen  skirt; 
then  Robert's  pacing  step  on  the  stone  pavement;  the 
crackle  of  a  match  as  he  paused,  and  his  steps  again; 
soon  the  returning  rustle  of  Selena. 

There  was  silence  for  a  full  minute. 

"Listen  to  me,"  she  heard  Robert  say  with  the  deadly 
quiet  that  she  knew  meant  his  most  intense  mood.  "This 
criticism  of  Elsie,  this  attempt  of  yours  to  accuse  her 
to  me  of  something  vague,  yet  damaging,  has  astounded 
me.  She's  not  the  sort  of  woman  you  dare  to  hint  at 
her  being.  Not  that  sort  —  and  I  know  it !"  After  this, 
for  a  full  moment  there  was  perfect  stillness.  Then,  "I 
must  think  this  over,  Selena.  One  thing  I  will  say  now, 
and  bear  it  in  mind  —  never  make  a  movement  in  regard 
to  Elsie  again  except  what  you  do  openly.  Anything 
else,  no  matter  how  you  decorate  the  act  to  yourself  is  as 
mean  as  —  theft !" 

Elsie  heard  his  steps  retreat  toward  the  side  of  the 
house  that  held  his  bedroom.  She  heard  Selena  open  the 
doors  into  the  patio  so  that  a  rush  of  scented  air  blew  in 
and  bulged  the  curtains  about  her  hiding  place.  She 
waited  until  the  silence  was  perfect  before  she  stepped 
out. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

IN  her  bedroom,  with  the  door  into  the  hall  locked  and 
the  big  double  doors  of  green  that  gave  on  the  gallery 
bolted,  Elsie  had  read  the  news  in  the  square  of  paper 
sent  by  her  mother.  She  had  read  every  word  slowly, 
some  of  the  paragraphs  again  and  again.  And  this  fin- 
ished, she  was  standing  with  the  thing  twisted  into  a  coil 
in  her  hands.  Life  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  her  except 
for  a  nightmare  look. 

The  extract  belonged  to  a  weekly  paper  where  a  writer 
who  knew  his  Debrett,  Burke's  Peerage  and  Almanach  de 
Gotha  backward,  wrote  intimately  of  happenings  present 
and  past  among  the  various  noble  families  of  all  the  Eu- 
ropean countries.  In  this  he  gave  a  belated  account  and 
a  true  one  of  how  the  young  Marques  de  Burgos  had  met 
his  death  the  June  previous  at  his  Cantabrian  lodge. 

After  introducing  him  in  the  purple  of  his  family 
honors,  he  had  dwelt  on  his  social  prestige  in  Paris,  his 
almost  unbelievable  good  looks,  his  poverty  that  he  wore 
as  a  grace  because  of  the  fanatical  exclusiveness  that  kept 
him  from  marrying  outside  of  his  class  for  money.  Don 
Arturo's  facile  idea  of  honor  in  gallantry  was  described : 

".  .  .  much  like  that  of  the  young  sparks  of  sixteenth- 
century  England,  as  shown  in  Wycherley's  and  Con- 
greve's  comedies,  when  expert  libertinage  was  a  fashion- 
able profession.  He  was  just  as  charming  in  manner  as 
these  popinjay  rakes,  as  light-minded,  extravagant,  gen- 
erous, soulless,  and  as  serenely  cruel.  Like  them  he  had 
stalked  whatever  woman  or  girl  aroused  desire.  If,  inno- 
cent, she  resisted,  and  was  captured  by  some  trick,  she 
was  used  for  his  pleasure,  lightly  discarded,  instantly  for- 
gotten." 

218 


The  Next  Corner  219 

Sparkling  cynicisms  miniaturized  the  Paphian  uses  to 
which  Don  Arturo  had  so  often  put  El  Miradero  in  its 
mountain  isolation,  —  how  women  of  fashion,  one  and 
then  another,  had  vanished  from  their  known  places  to  be 
queens  there,  secretly  and  briefly,  with  him;  and  how 
peasant  girls,  also  one  after  another,  had  entered  it, 
casual  loves,  who,  too  late,  found  that  hope  had  been  left 
behind.  It  was  for  the  last  of  these  rustic  victims  that 
the  Marques  de  Burgos  had  been  made  to  pay  the  su- 
preme penalty. 

Her  name  was  Ascuncion  Sanchez ;  her  father,  a  re- 
spected and  very  religious  man,  a  fisherman  at  Lequeytio. 
Of  conspicuous  beauty,  with  deep,  soft-gazing  eyes  and  a 
smile  to  melt  the  heart,  Ascuncion  had  come  to  sixteen 
years  and  to  the  devotion  of  the  lads  of  the  red-roofed, 
little  Basque  town  upon  the  Bay  of  Biscay.  She  was  in 
the  first  enjoyment  of  her  power  as  a  woman  desired, 
walking  among  her  simple-hearted  suitors  while  looking 
over  and  beyond  them  —  a  child  playing  the  queen  — 
when  Don  Arturo  passed  her  way. 

And  as  Francesca,  surrendering  to  love  for  Paola, 
closed  a  book  and  "read  no  more  that  day",  so  Ascuncion, 
for  Arturo,  had  closed  the  book  of  innocence.  The  child 
became  a  woman  with  a  flaming  heart,  all  her  artless,  af- 
fected imperiousness  replaced  by  a  real,  a  tragic  worship. 
Willingly  humble,  she  had  asked  but  to  be  somehow,  some- 
where, a  hidden  possession  in  Don  Arturo's  life,  content 
with  what  morsels  of  it  he  could  give  her,  if  only  his  love 
would  endure.  Her  happiness  had  been  of  the  briefest, 
lasting  hardly  two  months  of  that  summer  of  nineteen 
hundred  and  thirteen,  when  —  keeping  away  from  El 
Miradero  to  which  they  would  have  been  tracked  —  they 
had  hidden  in  small  inns  in  out-of-the-way  Spanish  towns. 
After  it,  Ascuncion,  on  the  way  to  motherhood  and  al- 
most insane  from  grief,  had  gone  back  to  her  father's 
home. 

The  writer  felt  sure  that  through  the  following 
pleasure-packed  autumn  and  winter  in  Paris,  De  Burgos 


220  The  Next  Corner 

had  not  given  a  thought  to  this  girl  of  the  people  with  her 
doe's  eyes  and  sweetly-syllabled  name;  yet  when  in,  June 
of  the  following  year  she  and  her  infant  had  died,  it  was 
decreed  under  the  roof  of  that  Basque  fisherman  that 
his  life  was  to  pay  for  hers.  From  that  moment  he  had 
not  had  a  chance  of  escape. 

Her  father  had  found  him  at  El  Miradero.  This  was 
on  a  certain  night  late  in  June,  when  his  anguish  for  his 
daughter's  destruction  was  at  its  freshest,  —  had,  more- 
over, found  him  there,  light-hearted,  with  a  new  mistress, 
this  time  a  young,  strikingly  blonde  woman  to  whom  De 
Burgos  had  spoken  in  what  the  fisherman  had  felt  sure 
was  English,  —  a  language  whose  sibilations  had  grown 
familiar  from  the  tourist  sportsmen  who  came  often  to 
Lequeytio  for  hake  fishing  and  whose  boats  he  had  man- 
aged. This  beauty,  in  the  glittering  semi-nudity  he  de- 
scribed, he  had  felt  to  be  as  sophistically  wanton  as  the 
man  he  had  come  to  call  to  an  accounting,  —  the  sort  of 
bacchante  with  whom  the  aristocrat  should  always  right- 
fully have  been  content,  leaving  the  virtuous  daughters 
of  the  poor  to  their  prayers  and  to  the  love  of  their  own 
men  who  made  wives  of  them.  In  her  presence  he  had 
shot  the  notable  and  notorious  young  Marques  de  Burgos. 
Yes  —  this  grandee,  possessing  the  sacred  blue  blood  he 
had  from  childhood  been  taught  to  honor,  he  had  killed 
with  the  implacable  precision  with  which  he  would  have 
despatched  a  mad  dog. 

The  story  in  conclusion  told  how  for  months  the  truth 
of  Don  Arturo's  death  had  been  smothered  in  the  ser- 
vants' statements  that  it  had  resulted  from  an  encounter 
with  a  thief.  They  were  the  only  witnesses,  as  "the 
soiled  butterfly  who  had  been  the  young  man's  companion 
had  used  her  tinsel  wings  to  good  effect  and  vanished  — 
in  all  likelihood,  to  Paris.  The  query:  'Who  was  she?' 
remains  unanswered." 

An  accident  to  Ascuncion's  father  at  Christmas  time 
in  the  big  seaport  town  to  which  he  had  gone  with  his 
family,  while  his  neighbors  had  supposed  him  in  America, 


The  Next  Corner  221 

had  brought  out  the  facts.  The  man  was  injured  beyond 
the  possibility  of  living,  and  his  wife,  who  regarded  this 
tragedy  as  an  expression  of  divine  wrath  for  his  crime, 
beseeched  him  to  confess.  He  had  done  so  to  a  priest, 
and  publicly  to  a  lawyer,  saying  in  a  blaze  before  he  died 
that  he  spoke  not  only  to  clean  his  soul,  but  as  he  no 
longer  had  fear  of  the  law,  to  stain  the  name  of  the 
seducer,  —  a  great  name  in  Spain.  Since  its  owner  had 
secretly  used  it  for  vileness,  why  should  he  keep  it  clean? 

This  was  what  Elsie  had  read;  what  Miss  Maury  had 
read ;  what  Robert  might  so  easily  have  read  —  Robert, 
who  knew  she  was  at  El  Miradero  on  that  date  in  June, 
given  so  exactly.  Her  eyes  had  gone  ahead  of  the  read- 
ing, raking  the  lines  in  dread  of  seeing  her  own  name  start 
out  at  her.  When  she  realized  that  she  had  escaped  this, 
her  heart  still  rang  through  her  clammy  body  with  the 
strokes  of  a  working  hammer. 

Shudders  ran  over  her.  The  disillusionment  on 
which  Nina  in  sending  her  this  revelation  had  shrewdly 
counted  was  as  real  as  a  thunderbolt.  It  crashed  through 
her  spirit,  splitting  her  beliefs,  turning  memory  from  a 
thing  that  had  sincerity  and  some  tragic  beauty  into  the 
altogether  vile. 

She  crept  into  an  armchair,  the  paper  still  twisted  in 
her  hands.  Her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  summer  of 
nineteen  hundred  and  thirteen.  During  months  previous 
to  it  Arturo  had  told  her  of  his  absorbing  love,  —  for  he 
had  not  juggled  with  time,  had  made  this  flagrantly  mani- 
fest soon  after  their  meeting,  in  the  early  spring.  In 
that  July,  bitter  in  despair,  he  had  left  Paris  for  his 
mountain  solitude.  When  autumn  came  he  had  returned 
from  it  to  keep  at  her  side  again,  as  fierce  in  his  prayers, 
seemingly  as  driven  by  disappointment,  as  he  had  been 
from  the  beginning. 

And  now  she  was  informed  of  how  he  had  spent  those 
months  in  Spain,  to  what  work  he  had  been  committed: 
The  defilement  of  innocence  and  artless  trust  for  a  sense 
gratification ;  the  wrecking  of  a  girl's  life  at  its  fresh  be- 


222  The  Next  Corner 

ginning,  with  her  death  and  the  heartbreak  of  those  who 
had  loved  her  following  on  her  disgrace.  This  treachery, 
often  so  commonplace  in  light-living  and  palliating  so- 
ciety that  the  horror  of  its  true  outlines  was  obscured, 
she,  through  feeling,  saw  clearly,  —  the  cynical  self-com- 
placency, the  deliberate  and  mean  deceit,  the  animalism 
and  rooted  brutality  that  alone  could  make  possible  this 
loathsome  crime. 

Wan,  Dantesque  figures  hurtled  through  memory  as  she 
sat  so:  Arturo,  the  fisherman,  Serafin,  herself,  and  the 
sorrowful  girl  whom  she  had  never  seen.  With  these  the 
word  "Ascuncion"  began  to  beat  on  her  mind.  She  had 
noticed  how  often  the  ghastly-faced  stranger  had  uttered 
it,  either  flinging  it  at  Arturo  in  rage  or  lingering  over 
it  tenderly,  and  in  her  ignorance  of  Spanish  then  she  had 
not  recognized  it  as  a  woman's  name.  Yes,  this  story  of 
Ascuncion  was  true.  Here  was  the  solution  of  Arturo's 
murder.  The  vengeance  that  can  become  the  very  root 
of  insensate  grief  had  judged  him  abominable,  unfit  to 
live. 

By  degrees  this  closeness  to  the  past  sank  away.  As 
Elsie  still  sat  motionless,  she  found  herself  prefiguring 
what  would  have  awaited  her  had  Arturo  lived.  She  saw 
the  first  flare  of  their  life  together  over  —  and  what  was 
left?  What  had  become  of  the  exultant  defiance  of  the 
world's  opinion,  his  homage,  their  consuming  happiness, 
the  sweet,  only  half-guessed,  violent  joys?  They  were 
gone.  And  Arturo  was  before  her,  almost  with  the  look 
of  a  stranger.  He  was  as  suave,  and  elegant,  and  grace- 
ful as  ever,  but  the  liquidly  brilliant  eyes,  so  often  implor- 
ing and  melancholy,  had  a  still  indifference  that  shook 
her  heart.  He  spoke,  and  his  smooth  tones  had  an  ulti- 
mate deadness.  He  was  changed,  he  said.  Things  would 
happen  so.  Who  could  know  one's  self  surely?  She  must 
be  sensible.  He  was  changed.  And  the  idyl  was  over. 

The  unreasoning  misery  of  women  at  seeing  the 
glamour  depart  from  what  has  been  intensely  precious 
mixed  in  her  with  a  feeling  of  degradation  and  rage. 


The  Next  Corner  223 

Against  this  thing  of  utter  cheapness,  this  rank  thing, 
she  had  staked  every  good  in  life,  even  reputation.  Her 
hands  went  up  and  spread  over  her  face,  covering  its 
distress  from  the  daylight  as  they  had  on  that  morning 
in  the  mule  coach  after  the  cynical  disrespect  that  is  so 
often  the  light  woman's  portion  had  beaten  down  her 
head,  given  wormwood  to  her  taste.  That  pain  was  with 
her  again.  Again  the  shame  soiled  her. 

A  little  while  and  she  roused  herself ;  something  bright 
began  to  show  in  her  spent  eyes,  strengthened  into  a 
grave,  fixed,  gaze.  It  was  a  look  of  purpose.  As  before 
she  had  flung  herself  without  reckoning  to  disaster  for 
the  wrong  thing,  so  now  by  every  possible  strategy  she 
would  work  to  save  herself  from  any  bitter  aftermath  at- 
tending her  weakness  and  mistake,  —  now,  as  never  be- 
fore, since  dignity  had  been  stripped  from  it  and  thought 
of  it  had  passed  into  the  intolerable. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

AN  hour  later  the  hot  wind,  that  wailed  and  pounded, 
had  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  began.  The  servants  re- 
placed chairs  and  rugs  in  the  patio  for  its  usual  occupa- 
tion up  to  sunset.  The  air  was  delicious  now,  soft  as 
sunned  milk,  with  tingling  chills  through  it  whose  source 
was  the  snow-crowned  mountains  miles  away. 

Elsie  was  almost  dressed  when  she  saw  Robert  come 
down  the  steps  from  his  gallery,  lay  a  heap  of  papers 
and  account  books  on  the  table,  and  stretch  himself  in 
a  lounging  chair  beside  it.  The  striped  umbrella  had 
been  taken  away,  and  the  lemon  glitter  of  late  afternoon 
poured  over  the  red  roofs  that  made  a  square  around  the 
patio,  turned  the  fountain's  spray  behind  him  to  sparks, 
and  struck  a  flash  from  the  silver  in  the  close  ripples  of 
his  hair. 

From  within  the  shelter  of  her  room  as  he  lay  in  this 
full  light,  Elsie  studied  him.  More  gray  edged  the  black 
locks  about  his  brow  than  had  been  there  even  a  few  months 
ago.  She  saw,  too,  that  while  no  doubt  he  had  bathed  and 
rested,  and  had  changed  into  the  white  linen  that  he 
wore  at  dinner,  it  was  more  than  likely  he  had  not  slept. 
His  eyes  had  a  wakeful  brightness  and  the  bluish  stains 
of  fatigue.  He  did  not  look  at  the  papers,  although  he 
lifted  some  of  them  for  examination ;  after  fingering  them 
he  put  them  back  and  began  to  pack  his  pipe  with 
tobacco;  as  suddenly  he  paused,  left  it  unlighted  and 
fell  into  thought ;  the  lids  were  lowered  under  frowning 
brows,  the  whole  face  had  a  look  of  sadness. 

Elsie  had  designedly  put  on  a  gown  he  had  told  her 
he  liked.  It  was  of  black  chiffon,  cut  away  at  the  throat 
in  a  round,  babyish  fashion,  the  skirt  a  mass  of  minute 

224 


The  Next  Corner  225 

ruffles  that  kept  up  a  fluttering  as  of  breeze-stirrea  leaves. 
In  this  she  was  a  moving  shadow,  the  pearliness  of  her 
arms  and  tender  bosom  gleaming  through  its  sheerness, 
her  pastel-tinted  face  and  nimbus  of  hair  a  radiance 
above  it.  The  grievous  memories  just  endured  had  worn 
her  eyes  into  a  look  of  intensified  spirituality  ;  with  this  the 
determination  to  hold  tenaciously  to  good  repute  had 
tilted  back  her  head,  put  an  unusual  streak  of  pink  into 
her  cheeks,  the  dawn  of  a  smile  upon  her  hardily  lifted 
lip.  It  was  so  that  she  stepped  out  on  the  gallery. 

Robert  rose  quickly.  As  he  watched  her  approach,  a 
hush  stole  over  the  welcome  of  his  look.  Her  quickened 
beauty  was  like  revelation.  He  had  never  felt  it  so  keenly 
nor  the  distance  between  them  so  cruel.  As  his  breath 
grew  troubled,  the  surface  of  his  body  seemed  brushed  by 
fire. 

Elsie  had  almost  reached  him  when  the  nervousness 
she  was  fighting  made  her  step  unsteady,  and  she  stumbled 
over  the  end  of  the  rug.  Robert  seized  her  by  the  arms 
in  a  gentle,  perfectly  balanced  grip  that  told  of  his 
strength.  But  when,  because  of  the  gauze,  he  seemed 
clasping  her  cool,  bare  flesh,  she  felt  the  sudden  betraying 
tremble  of  his  muscles.  He  held  her  so  for  a  few  seconds, 
only  long  enough  to  steady  her,  while  his  self-control 
faltered  like  a  flag  about  to  fall,  his  look  into  her  eyes 
an  aching  cry. 

Revulsion  came  as  quickly.  A  flush,  a  frown  of  light 
self-scorn  passed  over  his  face,  leaving  it  stern.  "Sit 
down,  my  dear,"  he  said,  and  helped  her  into  the  long 
chair.  "I  missed  you.  Did  you  sleep?" 

"For  a  whole  hour,  I'm  sure.  You  see  I  hid  away  from 
the  storm."  There  was  a  break  in  her  voice.  The 
knowledge  of  his  unrest  and  longing  had  brought  it; 
while  this  gave  assurance  of  her  undiminished,  even  in- 
creased power  over  him,  it  was  a  troubling  thing.  "I 
feel  the  most  gruesome  heaviness  and  sadness  from  those 
hot  winds.  You  didn't  sleep  though  —  did  you?  You 
look  so  very  tired,"  she  said,  and  clasping  her  hands, 


226  The  Next  Corner 

met  his  interested  eyes  with  the  faint,  poised  smile  of  a 
child  who  waits  for  a  story  to  start. 

"I  am  tired." 

"Can't  you  give  up  work  at  all?     Take  a  little  rest?" 

"I've  come  in  now  to  stay  two  days.  Business  is  held 
up  until  I  get  certain  instructions  from  New  York." 

She  sat  back  as  if  half-dreaming.  There  was  a  pause. 
She  had  a  role  to  play  and  must  not  suddenly  be  mark- 
edly unlike  the  self-communing  woman  with  whom  Robert 
had  grown  familiar.  After  a  silence  that  pulled  be- 
tween them  —  with  none  of  the  charm  that  silences  can 
have  between  two  where  there  is  contentment  —  she  spoke 
again. 

"Tell  me  something  about  what  you  do  at  the  mines. 
You're  a  wonderful  bronze  from  the  sun." 

"Not  only  sun  —  frost." 

"Is  it  so  cold?" 

"Often  it's  bitter.  During  September  and  October, 
when  it  rained,  it  was  a  curse  —  nothing  less.  The  moun- 
tain winds  through  the  wet  were  bone-piercing  then.  The 
mules  had  a  bad  time.  All  the  roads  were  a  soft  mat, 
and  where  there  was  grass  it  was  like  progress  over  soaked 
sponges.  It's  better  now.  Still  we  all  —  Americans  and 
natives  —  at  times  have  to  wear  knitted  wool  masks 
with  holes  for  nose,  eyes  and  mouth.  God  only  knows 
what  I'd  have  become  bv  this  time  except  for  my  wool 
mask !" 

Now  he  lighted  the  filled  pipe  and,  stretching  out  in 
his  chair  close  to  hers,  began  to  smoke  with  enjoyment. 
He  seldom  looked  at  her  and  in  the  barest  side  glances. 
She  noticed  this,  while  feeling  that  the  most  acute  con- 
sciousness of  her  was  in  those  averted  eyes. 

By  a  few  questions  she  led  him  to  talk  again  of  his 
work  and  heard  of  delays  and  disappointments  that  she 
understood  only  in  a  sketchy  way. 

"I've  told  you  that  this  Logrono  mine  is  an  old  one, 
first  exploited  six  years  ago  and  abandoned  as  hopeless. 
When  my  people  with  their  wealth  decided,  from  infor- 


The  Next  Corner  227 

mation  that  seemed  sound,  to  take  it  over  and  begin 
operations,  they  felt  sure  they  were  on  the  trail  of  a 
bonanza.  So  did  I.  I  still  have  faith  but  not  in  such 
results  as  those  on  which  we  counted.  Besides  all  the 
mess  I  had  to  struggle  through  in  starting,  another  angle 
is  always  jutting  from  the  situation,  a  complication  that 
arises  from  mining  property  adjoining  ours  and  that  was, 
in  fact,  originally  part  of  the  whole  Logrono  mine.  This, 
you  see  —  "  He  broke  off  sharply,  to  brood  down  at  the 
stem  of  his  pipe  before  saying  with  a  drily  apologetic  look 
at  her:  "I'm  boring  you.  This  stuff  doesn't  interest 
you,  perhaps  isn't  even  intelligible  to  you." 

"I'm  not  so  stupid !"  She  smiled  slightly,  the  tone  a 
rallying  one.  "Try  a  simplified  version.  I'll  like  hear- 
ing of  something  new  and  that's  so  important  to  you." 

"Well,  briefly  —  I'm  puzzled  as  to  what  attitude  I 
dught  to  take  regarding  a  proposition  that's  impending 
from  the  native  owners  of  the  other  half  of  the  Logrono 
mine.  They  have  neither  the  money  nor  the  outfit  for 
opening  up  again,  although  they  contend  that  they  know 
that  in  their  property  lies  the  richest  vein  of  the  moun- 
tain. Lately,  a  Venezuelan  named  Olazaba,  a  shrewd, 
very  convincing  sort  of  a  man  and  who  speaks  English 
almost  as  well  as  I  do,  has  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  with 
me.  He's  representing  the  others,  though  as  yet  only  in  a 
tentative  sort  of  way  —  putting  out  feelers  that  I  can  see 
point  toward  amalgamation.  Of  course,  this  would  mean 
a  big  position  for  him  with  his  backers.  Also  he  may  own 
a  big  block  of  the  now  worthless  stock  that  in  the  event 
of  the  other  half  being  operated  with  ours  would  at 
once  become  valuable,  so  that  his  real  interest  may  be  a 
purely  selfish  one  in  entangling  us  to  his  own  profit. 
Do  you  understand?" 

"I  think  so.  You  mean  that  whether  the  other  prop- 
erty were  good  or  not,  this  man  and  the  others  behind 
him  would  benefit  by  association  with  you." 

"Exactly.  I'm  not  inclined  to  consider  the  thing  at 
all,  for  my  own  belief  is  that  we  have  the  rich  half  of  the 


228  The  Next  Corner 

mine.  And  yet  —  as  in  all  speculations  —  holding  to 
this  idea,  I  may  be  turning  my  back  on  fortune.  Olazaba 
was  on  the  ground  years  ago  during  the  earlier  opera- 
tions, and  he  has  a  set  of  arguments  that  on  the  surface 
seem  very  worth  while.  I  don't  know  — "  He  left  the 
rest  unsaid  and  began  to  smoke  thoughtfully. 

"I'm  ignorant  of  it  all,  of  course,  but  I'm  sure  a  woman 
in  such  a  situation  would  trust  to  intuition,"  Elsie  coun- 
selled with  a  serious  air.  "Opening  an  old  mine!"  Her 
voice  grew  dreamy  as  she  said  this.  "I  like  the  picture  of 
that  better.  Gigantic! —  Is  it  romantic,  too?" 

"As  a  picture  I've  no  doubt  it's  very  romantic.  As  a 
business,  it's  been  an  unholy  thing  to  struggle  through! 
The  old  dump  and  buildings  and  rusted  machinery  had  to 
be  inspected  and  inventoried;  the  workings  underground 
that  had  filled  with  water  had  to  be  drained  off  before 
there  could  be  any  new  drilling  to  ascertain  where  the 
old  lead  led  and  the  dip  of  the  veins  beyond  the  place 
where  the  earlier  work  had  stopped.  Some  additional 
property  had  to  be  gained  and  new  mineral  rights  secured. 
I've  arranged  a  detailed  report  recommending  the  instal- 
lation of  still  better  machinery.  All  this  takes  time.  I 
thought  when  I  came  here,"  he  added  with  a  touch  of 
despondence  as  he  gazed  ahead,  puffing  softly  on  the 
short  pipe  gripped  by  his  browned  hand,  "that  I'd  get 
big  results  in  about  two  months  —  and  I'm  still  anxious. 
You've  no  idea  of  the  obstacles  and  dangers  attending 
the  reopening  of  an  old  mine  like  this.  To  start  with,  its 
chambers  were  full  of  snakes  and  bats  and  a  crawling 
mass  of  the  arana  mono  —  a  spider  six  inches  long  whose 
bite  causes  the  most  dreadful  fever.  Timbering  caved  in. 
Then,  just  as  we  got  really  going  —  and  from  something 
that  looks  like  the  work  of  enemies  —  our  windlass  cable 
broke.  No  idle  dream,  I  assure  you !" 

Elsie  bent  forward  to  look  into  his  face,  her  own  rapt 
and  attentive.  "I'd  no  idea  you  had  such  a  frightfully 
hard  time,  Robert.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  something 
about  it  before?  You've  never  said  a  word!" 


The  Next  Corner  229 

His  gaze,  turning  fully  upon  her,  took  a  most  charming 
turn;  it  was  quizzical,  with  a  touch  of  the  fondness  with 
which  one  regards  an  engaging  child,  and  with  the  faintest 
shadow  of  reproach.  "You  never  asked  me,"  he  said  very 
simply. 

The  words  silenced  Elsie,  brought  a  pang  of  regret  for 
his  loneliness.  It  was  all  the  sharper  as  it  came  with 
freshened  memory  of  his  defense  of  her  that  day. 

As  if  he  caught  this  last  thought,  he  bent  nearer  as 
she  sank  back.  "Tell  me  something,"  he  said  in  the 
earnest  tone  that  invites  confidence.  "Be  frank  with  me, 
Elsie.  Are  you — ?"  He  hesitated,  trouble  in  his  eyes. 
"Are  you  unhappy  here?" 

She  forced  her  face  to  one  of  its  old,  sudden  sparkles. 
"Have  I  seemed  so?  —  a  sort  of  Mrs.  Gummidge?  Dread- 
ful !  Why,  of  course,  Robert,  I  haven't  been  unhappy !" 

"Well,  are  you  contented?"  As  she  did  not  speak  he 
went  on,  visibly  more  anxious  at  her  silence.  "Does 
nothing  irritate  you?  I  mean,  is  there  any  single  thing 
you'd  have  changed?  You  have  only  to  tell  me,"  he  said, 
his  straight  gaze  and  tranquil  force  a  seal  upon  the 
words. 

"I  like  it  all."  This  was  muted,  slow,  deeply  sincere. 
And  then  words  she  had  not  intended  to  speak,  did  not 
want  to  speak,  burst  from  her  uncontrollably.  "You  are 
too  kind  to  me.  Oh,  from  the  first  —  from  that  day  in 
New  York,  you  have  been  kind.  I  feel  horrid  to  have 
you  so  good  to  me !"  The  tone,  while  continuing  subdued, 
had  grown  frantic,  and  tears  broke  from  her  in  a  sudden 
storm.  All  the  mixed  pain  of  the  day  was  in  the  collapse. 
Though  she  fought  it,  her  lips  went  awry  as  her  head 
sank  further  back,  and  she  turned  away  her  face.  "I've 
been  cruel  —  oh,  I  know  it,  although  you've  never  let  me 
see  it.  Cruel  and  selfish  —  that's  what  I've  been !  I 
couldn't  help  it  —  but  it's  true." 

Without  moving  an  inch  toward  her  or  touching  her, 
Robert  let  the  weakness  expend  itself.  His  eyes,  startled 
and  anxious  at  first,  grew  comprehending  and  kindled 
angrily. 


230  The  Next  Comer 

"Elsie!"  He  said  this  almost  in  a  whisper,  with  de- 
cision, as  her  composure  returned,  and  waited  until  she 
looked  at  him  in  an  unwilling,  clouded  way.  "I  don't 
intend  to  answer  what  you  say  of  my  kindness  to  you. 
That's  not  a  word,  with  its  charity  and  patronage,  to 
be  used  between  us  —  absurd !  I  know  now,  however,  that 
what  I  feared  is  true.  Selena  chills  you,  tries  you,  has 
made  you  nervous  — " 

"No,  no  — " 

"Now  you  are  kind  —  to  her.  You  are  hiding  the 
truth." 

"No !"  She  bent  forward  vigorously.  "Please  don't 
say  any  more  about  it.  For  you  are  wrong.  If  I  were 
not  contented  here,  no  one  would  be  to  blame  for  it  but 
my  own  self." 

A  longing  came  to  her  to  bathe  her  spirit  in  truth  — 
as  much  of  it  as  she  dared  speak  —  and  with  this  a  look 
of  recklessness  brought  intensity  to  her  face. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  come  here.  It  isn't  fair  to  you. 
You  asked  me  —  I  didn't  want  to  —  I  know  it  isn't  fair." 

"It  is  quite  fair." 

"No !  I  ought  to  go.  Suppose  I  tell  you  now  that  I 
cannot  stay?" 

He  remained  silent,  not  looking  at  her.  "Then  you 
would  go.  I'd  have  to  let  you,  and  without  a  word  to  try 
to  keep  you,"  he  said  in  a  quiet  voice  that  had  no  likeness 
to  peace.  "I  asked  for  your  companionship,  hoping  that 
while  we  lived  under  the  one  roof  you  might  come  to  know 
yourself  better  than  you  did  in  New  York.  You  told  me 
then  that  your  love  for  me  was  gone.  You  didn't  say 
you  cared  for  some  one  else;  and  you  don't  say  it  now." 

He  stopped.  He  was  waiting,  she  knew,  for  her  answer 
in  words  to  make  his  conviction  absolute.  She  could  not 
bring  herself  to  speak.  It  was  even  hard,  with  her 
mouth  set  in  a  look  of  repudiation,  to  move  her  head 
slightly  in  the  negative,  the  while  she  saw  a  grave  in 
Spain  that  could  not  be  remembered  any  more  except  with 
the  dark  sense  of  insult. 


The  Next  Corner  231 

"That's  what  I  believed.  If  it  had  been  otherwise, 
you'd  have  told  me.  And  so  I  hoped  —  I  couldn't  help  it. 
I  couldn't  believe,  Elsie,  that  things  were  at  such  a  pass 
between  us  as  never  to  be  righted  again."  After  a  silence 
some  wistful  words  came,  as  if  defying  his  will.  "I 
promised  to  be  grateful  for  your  dear  companionship 
here  on  the  basis  of  friendship.  And  I  am!  Still  for- 
give me  if,  just  once,  I  speak  of  what  I  feel  beneath  this." 

He  leant  his  arm  well  over  on  the  table  and  bent  closer 
to  look  in  the  face  that  was  so  still. 

"You  tell  me  that  no  one  has  taken  my  place  in  your 
heart.  I  am  true  to  you.  And  I  have  been,  often  through 
temptation  that  might  have  explained  my  failing  —  sav- 
agely, tenaciously  true  to  you  —  because  from  the  be- 
ginning I  have  loved  you  with  my  soul.  For  I  am  the 
sort  of  man  who  makes  a  temple  about  what  is  in  his  soul. 
And  who  would  soil  a  temple?" 

This  declaration  went  through  Elsie  and  seemed  to  turn 
her  heart  over.  Her  strained  eyes,  grown  very  dark,  met 
his  look  fully,  bathed  in  it,  until  her  lids  fluttered  down, 
leaving  the  face  as  a  lovely  mask. 

"I  knew  you  loved  me  that  way."  This  was  only  a 
breath  and  over  lips  so  quiet  they  seemed  chiselled.  "I 
always  knew  it.  You  would  put  me  away,  often,  Robert, 
in  a  lonely  niche  and  high  up  on  a  pedestal  where  it  could 
be  very  cold,"  she  said,  a  flicker  of  irony  in  the  faint  smile 
that  showed  and  faded  in  her  face,  "but  I  knew  your  feel- 
ing for  me  had  holiness  in  it.  I  confess  I  did  not  value 
that  as  it  deserved."  What  followed  came  slowly,  an 
odd,  bitter  fervor  in  it.  "I  value  it  now" 

The  four  intense  words  brought  Robert  elusive  trouble. 
There  was  no  encouragement  in  them  that  his  flawless  love, 
though  prized,  had  drawn  her  nearer  to  him.  He  fought 
depression. 

"Stay  on  here  a  while  longer,"  he  urged.  "Our  marriage 
is  like  a  house  that  has  partly  fallen,  but  with  the  foun- 
dation sound  —  since  we  have  kept  the  faith !  Don't 
say  you  must  go  —  not  yet !" 


232  The  Next  Corner 

Candida,  trundling  the  tea  wagon,  came  from  the  house, 
followed  by  Miss  Maury.  The  equipage  with  its  appetiz- 
ing array  was  rolled  before  Elsie. 

"I  hope  you  want  your  tea,  Selena,  as  badly  as  I  do 
at  this  moment,"  she  roused  herself  to  say  as  she  began 
to  serve  it. 

"Yes,"  was  the  answer,  and  no  more. 

Robert  gave  his  sister  a  long,  studying  look.  There 
was  an  ugly  light  in  her  eyes,  a  faintly  greenish  tinge 
through  her  skin  as  of  a  liver  actively  disturbed,  her 
air  of  exaggerated  resignation  really  indicating  the  most 
contradictory  hostility.  He  became  very  thoughtful  as  he 
took  his  cup  from  Elsie. 

And  she,  while  her  fingers,  veiled  at  times  by  the  floating 
gauze  of  the  long  sleeves,  moved  prettily  among  the 
china  and  silver,  called  back  her  determination  to  fight 
any  danger  that  threatened  exposure.  Selena  was  such 
a  danger;  and  without  displacing  her  or  injuring  her  with 
her  brother,  Elsie  meant,  amiably,  to  defeat  her. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  my  mother  this  morning,"  she 
casually  announced. 

Robert  did  not  conceal  his  pleasure  at  these  words. 
It  was  in  his  look  as  he  deliberately  let  it  fence  with 
Selena's  for  a  second.  "What  does  she  say  about  New 
York  —  how  it's  taking  the  war?"  he  asked.  "The  papers 
I've  seen  show  that  while  the  government  may  declare  itself 
neutral  until  it's  black  in  the  face,  the  people  go  out  of 
their  way  to  howl  their  rampant  detestation  of  everything 
German  —  and  for  that  at  least,  God  be  praised !" 
x  Elsie  forced  a  sound  of  laughter.  "Muv  doesn't  men- 
tion the  war,  except  to  describe  Percy's  latest  hat  inspira- 
tion born  of  it  —  something  shaped  like  an  aeroplane 
with  big  wings  on  each  side.  Her  other  news  was  like 
that  —  her  usual  prattle." 

Much  as  a  desperate  creature  pushes  its  way  through 
darkness  and  cold  to  some  refuge,  she  made  ready  to 
utter  once  what  it  was  ignominy  even  to  hold  in  her 
thought.  And  while  making  this  bitter  struggle  she  seemed 


The  Next  Corner  233 

a  human  lily,  something  that  uglinesses  like  sin,  deceit 
and  guilty  fear  could  never  soil. 

"She  sent  me  a  horrid  bit  of  news,  though  —  an  account 
of  how  a  man  we'd  both  known  in  Paris  was  killed.  He 
had  seduced  a  young  country  girl  and  her  father  shot 
him."  Then,  while  it  seemed  beyond  belief  that  it  was 
she  who  spoke  the  next  words,  they  came  with  apparent 
serenity  through  lips  that  felt  frozen:  "Evidently  a 
thoroughly  bad  lot,  although  he  had  not  seemed  that 
sort." 

Her  spirit  quailed  at  thought  of  having  to  speak 
Arturo's  name.  Surely  he  would  be  recalled  to  Robert  as 
the  man  to  whose  house  she  had  gone  after  their  parting 
in  Paris.  Yet  that  she  could  escape  this  seemed  hopeless. 
Robert  was  waiting  for  her  next  words ;  she  could  feel 
that  to  ask  who  the  man  was  hesitated  upon  his  lips. 

Breaking  this  premonitory  silence,  there  came  the 
sound  of  a  light  tread  on  the  pavement  at  their  back 
that  seemed  to  Elsie  nothing  less  than  Godsent.  To 
emphasize  it  as  an  interruption  and  divert  interest  from 
herself,  she  gave  a  quick  look  over  her  shoulder.  When 
she  saw  Domingo,  the  mail  bag  in  his  hand,  going 
toward  her  husband,  she  seemed  to  go  blind  just  as  she 
sat,  with  her  head  turned. 

In  the  excitement  of  the  past  few  hours  she  had  for- 
gotten the  evening  post  and  her  usual  method  of  inspect- 
ing it  first,  as  though  by  accident,  in  the  entrance  hall. 
There  was  nothing  she  could  do  but  drag  back  her  dulled 
eyes  to  rest  on  Robert  and  watch  him  as  a  prisoner  does 
the  jury.  Would  he  draw  from  the  bag  a  gray-blue  letter 
—  a  worn  and  scrawled  letter  —  a  letter  with  a  seal  ? 
On  the  long,  rigid  look  she  did  not  breathe.  .  .  . 

It  was  through  a  lurch  of  vertigo  that  she  saw  she 
was  safe.  A  few  large  white  envelopes,  visibly  business 
communications  and  circulars  from  places  near  by,  were 
all  that  came  out.  She  made  herself  perfectly  motionless 
as  with  all  her  strength  she  fought  the  weakness, 
glad  that  Robert's  eyes  were  lowered  as  he  read.  When 


234  The  Next  Corner 

the  patio  steadied,  she  relaxed  heavily  in  the  chair,  peace- 
ful again,  though  every  bit  of  her  was  deadly  cold. 

One  look  at  Miss  Maury,  and  she  knew  she  had  not 
escaped  completely.  What  she  read  in  those  eyes,  fixed 
upon  her  in  a  quietly  immovable  way,  sent  the  blood  in  a 
rush  over  her  face,  up  into  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"You  can  deceive  him,"  she  felt  the  look  say.  "He's  a 
man,  and  in  love  with  you  —  therefore  a  fool.  You  can't 
deceive  me." 

That  night  the  Venezuelan  neighbors  came  to  the  haci- 
enda to  play  bridge.  The  tables  were  made  up,  and  as 
there  were  just  enough  without  Elsie  she  truthfully  said 
that  she  was  glad  to  be  left  out,  as  she  wanted  to  stay  in 
the  air.  A  Spanish  lace  shawl  that  Robert  had  brought 
her  from  Caracas  wrapped  about  her  head  and  shoulders, 
she  strolled  through  the  front  doors  that  gave  upon  the 
road. 

The  light  from  an  almost  full  moon  was  a  drenching 
pallor  on  which  every  smallest  leaf  was  moving  jet.  Just 
such  a  night  and  such  a  light  as  were  about  her  when  she 
had  stood  above  the  Cantabrian  precipice ;  and  —  though 
farther  away  —  mountains  were  here,  their  shining 
heights  rounding  out  the  memory.  The  scene  seemed,  in 
a  way,  a  ghost  of  that  other  one.  And  she,  too,  with  her 
sickened  heart,  only  a  ghost  of  the  woman  who  had 
lived  on  life's  most  thrilling  note  that  night. 

After  pacing  for  a  few  moments  on  the  path  before  the 
door,  she  crossed  quickly  to  a  wood  of  packed  pines 
that  made  shadow  on  the  other  side.  She  had  never  gone 
even  this  short  distance  from  the  house  alone  at  night, 
and  to  step  into  the  darkness  of  the  trees  required  daring. 
When,  in  the  silence,  stirrings  from  the  bushes  and  the 
scampering  of  tiny  frightened  feet  about  her  own  made 
her  know  she  had  trespassed  on  the  night  freedom  of  the 
furtive  life  hidden  there,  a  shudder  of  repugnance  went 
over  her  but  without  bringing  her  to  a  pause  until  she 
stood  beside  what  she  sought.  This  was  a  deep-channeled 


The  Next  Corner  235 

and  pebbly  stream  flowing  on  such  a  sharp  slant  that 
its  rush  over  a  slope  made  the  chatter  of  small  waves. 
Divisions  in  the  trees  let  in  the  moonlight,  and  where  the 
water  was  almost  level,  it  lay  in  patches  that  seemed 
silver  shields,  molten  and  shivering. 

Elsie  did  not  linger  for  an  unnecessary  second.  Her 
lids  were  heavy,  her  lips  set,  her  whole  look  somber.  She 
drew  the  folded  news  account  from  her  girdle,  tore  it  into 
long  strips,  then  into  fragments,  and  poured  them  on  the 
ripples  where  they  clung  like  a  trail  of  snowflakes  before 
they  were  tossed  on.  From  a  silk  handbag  she  drew  Ar- 
turo's  crested  ring  and  threw  it  into  the  deepest  flow. 
She  saw  it  cut  the  air  as  a  flying  spark,  strike  on  one  of 
the  protruding  stones,  and  rebound  from  this  to  the  riot- 
ous stream  whose  song  came  back  to  her  from  the 
shadows.  It  was  gone. 

The  tearing  to  bits  of  the  disclosure  and  the  repudia- 
tion of  the  only  tangible  thing  that  she  had  belonging  to 
the  concealed  fragment  of  her  life  had  had  the  solemnity 
of  a  church  rite  to  Elsie,  and  with  it  the  feeling  that 
comes  from  the  last  spadeful  of  earth  on  a  grave,  —  as 
of  something  forever  darkened,  finished.  Not  until  this 
day  had  Arturo  died  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ROBERT  played  cards  —  played  them  absently  —  until 
late,  and  afterward  walked  home  with  his  guests.  All  this 
time  his  thoughts  were  of  Elsie.  Before  he  slept  he  came 
to  a  decision:  Simply  by  satisfying  his  freshened  longing 
to  make  his  wife's  life  more  pleasant,  her  heart  lighter, 
he  would  be  able  to  answer  Selena's  antagonism  with  a 
body  blow.  What  could  he  do  first?  At  once  his  thoughts 
turned  to  material  gifts. 

This  instinct,  essentially  masculine,  makes  one  see  the 
eager,  asking  hands  of  women  through  recorded  time. 
Jewels  for  Cleopatra,  the  palfrey  and  the  hawk  brought 
by  the  mediaeval  knight  to  his  castle-bred  bride,  the  beads 
hung  on  squaws  by  countless  Hiawathas,  down  to  the 
necklaces  and  pendants  that  to-day  pass  over  the 
counters  of  the  great  jewelers  of  the  world  for  the  women 
beloved  of  rich  men,  —  all  bear  witness  to  those  little 
hands  held  out  while,  consciously  or  not,  eyes  are  bright 
with  the  question:  "What  will  he  give  me?" 

So  during  his  two  days  away  from  the  mine,  Robert 
spent  all  of  one  in  Caracas.  There  he  picked  out  an 
electric  landaulette  that  was  padded  like  a  jewel  case; 
he  meant  Elsie  to  learn  to  run  it  herself,  without  having 
to  depend  on  the  family  car  that  needed  a  man  at  the 
wheel.  He  also  bought  a  piano  whose  modern  mechanism 
was  housed  in  the  frame  of  an  ancient  spinet.  Elsie  never 
sang  now;  she  was  like  a  bird  in  captivity  gone  mute; 
and  he  wanted  to  hear  her  voice  again  as  he  remembered 
it  in  the  days  before  the  little  child  had  died,  —  in  old 
English  ballads  and  the  love  songs  of  Grieg  that  suited 
her  sweet,  whispering  tones,  their  twilight  charm. 

On  returning  from  his  walk  the  night  before,  he  had 
found  her  sitting  in  the  patio,  wrapped  in  the  Spanish 

236 


The  Next  Corner  237 

shawl,  and  had  told  her  of  these  intentions.  At  first  he 
had  been  made  happy  by  the  sudden  look  of  affection  that 
brought  a  glow  to  her  dreaming  eyes ;  as  suddenly  chilled 
by  its  quick  fading,  when  with  unmistakable  sincerity  she 
tried  to  dissuade  him  from  buying  the  things  for  her. 
And  though  he  had  made  it  plain  how  glad  he  would  be 
to  have  her  go  with  him  on  the  jaunt,  she  had  given  sev- 
eral reasons  for  remaining  at  home. 

On  the  way  to  the  capital  he  had  sat  with  folded  arms, 
the  brim  of  his  Panama  hat  pulled  into  a  point  over  his 
eyes  with  their  savage  pain,  and  brooded  upon  these 
defeats.  She  had  not  wanted  the  luxuries  from  him  be- 
cause they  had  seemed  hampering  obligations,  outside 
their  compact.  She  had  not  wanted  to  go  with  him,  and 
the  reasons  given  —  a  dislike  of  the  effort  in  the  heat, 
the  closeness  of  the  train  —  had  been  dismissed  by  him 
as  untrue.  Simply  she  had  not  wanted  to  go. 

Of  course  no  idea  had  come  to  him  of  the  picture  that 
his  request  had  flashed  before  Elsie  on  the  springs  of  fear, 
in  which  she  had  seen  herself  leaving  for  Caracas  on  the 
early  morning  train,  remaining  absent  until  midnight  or 
later,  the  letters  coming  three  times  directly  into  Selena's 
hands.  Even  under  previous  circumstances  she  could  not 
have  endured  this;  and  less  than  ever  from  this  time  on, 
since  she  had  come  to  know  that  the  mails  were  watched 
for  by  Selena's  mystified  eyes  as  eagerly  as  by  her  own. 

She  was  not  up  when  Robert  left,  and  a  few  hours  after 
his  departure,  on  starting  as  usual  for  her  morning  walk, 
she  had  to  steel  herself  against  the  examining  gaze  from 
Miss  Maury  that  she  could  feel  follow  her  as  she  strolled 
away;  later  in  the  day  she  managed  to  see  Domingo  in 
time  to  get  first  word  from  him  that  no  letters  had  come 
for  any  one.  These  efforts,  successful  though  they  were, 
left  her  with  a  feeling  of  desperation,  her  brain  rasped  as 
from  some  steady,  nagging  sound.  In  consequence,  when 
Robert  reached  home  very  late  and  brightened  to  find 
her  still  up,  waiting  to  hear  his  account  of  the  day,  she 
was  in  reality  keyed  almost  to  hysteria  from  the  unre- 


238  The  Next  Corner 

mitting  sense  of  an  enemy  in  the  house  whose  furtive  sus- 
picion dogged  her. 

Elsie  slept  badly  that  night.  Another  day  had  gone 
and  the  gray-blue  letter  had  not  appeared.  She  lay  on 
her  bed  —  the  Spanish  bed  of  hot  countries ;  flat,  only 
a  coverlet  over  the  springs  in  place  of  a  mattress,  cool 
and  smooth  with  its  tightly  drawn  linen  —  and  gazed 
through  the  drapery  of  netting  rising  in  clouds  above  her, 
toward  the  moonlight  that  filtered  through  the  window  in 
the  vaulted  roof  whose  ribbed  divisions  were  like  a  bat's 
spread  wings,  while  frantic  hatred  of  what  she  dreaded 
began  in  her. 

It  had  been  her  inherent  straightforwardness,  alive  even 
on  that  June  night  of  reckless  joy  and  surrender,  that  had 
made  her  write  the  literal  truth  to  Robert.  Ah,  better 
for  her  if,  being  a  rebel,  she  had  been  a  hard  one!  Far 
better  if  the  wish  to  be  fair  had  not  urged  her  pen  to  the 
words  that  had  become  her  threatened  defeat! 

She  had  often  lulled  herself  with  her  mother's  belief 
that  the  letter  was  part  of  a  lost  ship's  cargo  and  safely 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  To-night,  as  she  lay  open-eyed 
with  tensely  shut  hands,  she  could  not  think  so.  A  sense 
of  prophecy  kept  saying  to  her  that  at  last,  maybe  when 
it  would  have  even  more  destructive  power  than  now,  be- 
cause she  would  have  more  to  lose,  it  would  reach  its 
haven  and,  unless  she  were  fortunate,  make  chaos  of  her 
life. 

Where  was  it?  Where,  at  that  moment?  In  existence 
somewhere,  buffeted  by  accident  and  change,  in  having  on 
long  and  slow  journeys,  forward  and  back,  followed 
Robert?  Was  it  one  of  hundreds  in  some  forgotten  mail 
sack?  Neglected  for  a  time  in  some  post-office,  would  it 
soon  be  on  its  way  again?  Was  it  already  on  its  way? 

If  it  had  only  come  to-day.  If,  to-day,  she  had  been 
able  to  see  it!  If,  with  the  first  well-known  and  the  an- 
ticipated marks  of  later  travel  upon  it,  she  had  held  it  in 
her  hands  and  had  had  the  joy  of  tearing  if  to  bits  as  she 
had  torn  the  printed  tale  that  had  unsealed  her  eyes  to 


The  Next  Cornet  239 

the  contemptibleness  on  which  her  folly  had  been  built! 
Oh,  if  it  had  only  come  to-day ! 

How  long  would  she  have  to  keep  to  her  post  as  look- 
out while  the  cold  hatred  of  a  nature  that  repelled  her 
hung  about  her,  as  determined  as  it  was  masked?  How 
long  must  she  feel  uncertain,  her  eyes  on  the  next  corner 
around  which,  at  any  moment,  the  sinister  might  step 
and  face  her,  its  dark  smile  declaring:  "You  see  I  have 
come.  Yes  —  after  all  —  I  have  come !"  How  long  be- 
fore she  could  feel  the  danger  over?  .  .  . 

She  tossed  in  a  distraught  wakefulness. 

As  the  tranquil  weeks  passed,  the  desire  to  have  the 
letter  arrive  and  be  destroyed  by  her  became  an  obsession 
with  Elsie.  She  was  daily  coming  to  a  more  warm  and 
wistful  nearness  to  her  husband.  Irresistibly  she  kept 
constantly  seeing  his  reticence  and  self-control  against 
the  memory  of  Arturo's  pyrotechny  of  passion.  And 
Robert  gained  by  the  contrast.  Arturo's  unbridled  dis- 
play of  feeling  took  on  the  cheapness  of  redundancy  be- 
side what  she  had  come  to  know  was  uncompromising  man- 
hood in  Robert,  a  pure,  high  pride.  Daily  she  saw,  too, 
that  this  strength  was  only  a  breakwater  to  stem  a  need 
of  her  whose  hints  of  fury  overleaping  it  had  begun  to 
call  to  her,  strong  with  the  charm  that  misery  and  hunger 
can  give  to  love. 

Robert  no  longer  suggested  the  almost  fraternal,  self- 
contained  husband  of  their  earlier  life;  the  absorbed 
worker  who  had  for  periods  lived  on  a  different  plane, 
she  forgotten.  Without  knowing  it  he  was  winning 
her  because,  bitterly  unhappy  without  her,  he  could  not 
always  prevent  her  seeing  it.  And  this  is  sure  to  draw 
a  woman  when  a  man  is  dear.  It  loses  nothing  in  force 
because  he  is  a  husband  and  not  a  lover.  If  the  unhappy 
longing  for  her  is  there,  evident  to  her  through  circum- 
stances of  some  sort  that  thwart  it,  he  becomes  a  lover, 
and  the  unrest  from  him  is  a  flame  that  starts  its  like  in 
her  until  she  is  filled  with  steady  consciousness  of  him. 


240  The  Next  Corner 

Robert  was  far  from  realizing  that  such  thoughts  were 
Elsie's.  During  these  days  he  scarcely  knew  himself,  his 
philosophy  became  so  inefficient  and  he  so  bitterly  restive. 
At  the  mine  his  body  would  move  capably  at  his  work 
while  his  mind  was  often  far  from  it.  The  early  after- 
noon, his  time  of  rest,  began  to  have  the  allure  that  an 
empty  church  has  for  one  unhappy  who  out  of  the 
bustling  midday  steals  into  its  dusk  and  silence  to  sit  in 
solitude,  easing  pain  by  dwelling  on  it.  In  this  hour  he 
was  always  able  to  be  alone  in  the  manager's  house,  and 
he  would  lounge  in  his  easy,  long-limbed  way  at  his  desk, 
gazing  through  the  open  door,  though  not  at  what  was 
there,  —  limestone  gorges  whose  riven  and  mangled  sides 
were  damascened  with  a  curious  verdigris-brown;  the 
crane,  shaped  like  a  bent  elbow,  towering  out  of  the  dark- 
ness of  the  gut  in  the  mountain's  side  from  which  the  ma- 
chinery's turmoil  seemed  the  roar  of  beasts ;  strings  of 
laden  mules  prodded  by  mestizos;  forked  and  furrowed 
heights  in  the  distance ;  and,  austerely  remote,  the  mystic 
shimmering  white  of  an  occasional  peak,  like  heavenly 
watchers  .blanched  with  disdain  for  the  pigmies  who  de- 
spoiled the  land,  seeking  what  to  their  mean  conception 
meant  power. 

None  of  these  things  were  real  to  Robert  as  he  mused. 
His  mind  would  cling  to  pictures  of  his  wife  remembered 
from  his  previous  visit  home ;  one,  and  then  another,  they 
kept  haunting  him.  His  heart  would  burn  in  a  dull  way, 
and  his  body  tremble  at  the  thoughts  of  her  that  began 
to  creep  in  and  endure. 

Foremost  was  the  belief  that  soon  Elsie  would  leave 
him.  As  they  lived  now,  he  was  sure  she  saw  herself  a 
detached  and  parenthetical  thing  in  his  home,  something 
that  daily  became  more  irrelevant.  She  would  decide  to 
go.  And  he  would  have  to  keep  himself  from  one  prayer. 
She  would  vanish  out  of  his  life  —  this  woman,  so  dear 
to  him,  from  whose  fragility  there  came  to  him  now  hints 
of  deeply  hidden  fervor,  something  sensitively  unquiet,  a 
likeness  to  it  in  the  effect  of  the  hair  that  made  a  wavering 


The.  Next  Corner  241 

light  about  her  intensely  white  face  where  her  eyes  were 
pools  of  shadow. 

She  would  go,  uniquely  unarmed  against  new  and  diffi- 
cult issues,  with  no  close  ties  waiting  to  enfold  her,  no 
wiser  brain  to  help.  And  he  would  have  to  endure  it. 
There  would  be  silence  and  emptiness  afterward  —  as  if 
she  had  died !  —  yet  worse,  since  there  would  continue 
with  him  to  be  savagely  lived  down  the  hideously  be- 
littling hurt  that  belongs  to  failure. 

So  these  two,  confused,  uncomprehending,  would  meet 
and  part  every  few  days,  —  Robert's  eyes  on  Elsie's  face, 
watching  for  a  sign  that  did  not  come;  and  hers  fixed  on 
the  void  in  which  their  lives  spun  and  where,  distant  or 
near  there  might  be  eddying,  to  come  at  last  into  Robert's 
hands,  her  own  renegade  words  of  abjuration  and  fare- 
well that  would  send  her  value  crashing  into  the  splinters 
made  easily  by  the  fall  of  a  damaged  thing. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

ELSIE  brought  her  car  to  a  stop.  Before  she  could 
step  from  the  satin  interior  where  mirrors  reflected  the 
bouquets  in  hanging  vases,  the  stable-like  front  doors  of 
the  hacienda  were  rolled  to  each  side  from  within  by  one 
of  the  mestizos,  while  another  ran  out  to  help  her  alight 
and  take  charge  of  her  many  packages. 

She  had  been  in  the  town  since  the  morning;  had  spent 
hours  at  the  sale  of  a  library  by  an  Englishman  who 
was  scattering  his  belongings  before  returning  home ;  had 
almuerzo  with  one  of  her  neighbors ;  and  had  stopped  at 
the  post-office  twice,  —  the  visits  having  resulted  in  only 
a  few  local  letters,  as  the  foreign  mail,  on  the  boat  that 
had  reached  La  Guaira  the  day  before,  was  not  expected 
until  some  time  that  night. 

It  was  late  March  now,  and  the  land  was  exotically 
splendid.  Easter  was  just  over,  its  joyousness  lingering 
on  in  the  festas  of  this  "month  of  Mary."  Church  pro- 
cessions were  met  constantly,  mostly  of  white-veiled  little 
girls  carrying  lighted  candles  through  the  full  sunshine; 
after  dark  there  was  a  flash  of  lanterns  from  groves  on 
the  town's  edge,  where  the  natives  danced ;  all  day  long 
until  late  at  night,  from  houses  and  street  bands  music 
came,  —  heady,  richly  sweet,  of  uneven  twisting  tempo, 
a  provocation  to  the  body  to  sway,  while  burning  the 
heart  with  the  trouble  that  belongs  to  love. 

Elsie's  imagination  had  given  quick  response  to  these 
notes  of  passionate  life,  finding  something  exquisitely 
sensuous  even  in  the  religious  ecstacy  that  was  like  the 
flinging  up  of  the  arms  of  the  sad  world  toward  the  sky 
in  freshened  hope  of  happiness,  keener  worship  of  the 
beautiful  and  good.  She  had  gone  about  her  projects 

242 


The  Next  Comer  243 

through  the  day  in  the  dreaminess  that  the  springtime, 
even  in  bare,  northern  latitudes,  can  give,  —  a  sense 
of  budding  in  the  root  of  one's  spirit;  a  something  that 
enkindles,  so  that  the  saddest  can  know  briefly  the  ghost 
of  old  desires.  And  this  delicately-sparked  languor  was 
with  her  as  she  stepped  into  the  flagged  entrance  hall 
that,  after  the  outside  brilliance,  seemed  as  black  as  a 
crypt. 

Instantly  she  found  that  the  shadow  was  the  only 
likeness  to  a  crypt.  The  place  rang  with  the  clash  of 
angry  voices  crossing  each  other  in  dispute.  As  she 
paused,  both  tense  and  quivering,  she  realized  there  were 
two  speakers  —  Miss  Maury  and  Candida  —  and  they 
were  in  her  room.  The  upper  part  of  the  door  that  led 
to  it  from  the  hall  was  made  of  stained  glass,  one  of  the 
panes  lifted  on  a  catch  for  air,  so  that  sound  travelled 
clearly.  Before  turning  the  knob  she  stood  listening. 

"Don't  try  to  defend  yourself  any  further,  you  horrible 
girl.  I  have  told  you  what  you  are  to  do,"  came  stridently 
from  Selena. 

"I  won't  do  it!"  This  as  a  dolorous  shriek  from 
Candida.  "You  will  see!  I  shall  go  to  the  festa!  You 
will  see !  When  my  senora  comes  !  —  " 

"You  will  do  as  /  say.  Stand  on  your  feet.  Get  up 
at  once !" 

"No !  I  shall  die  here  first.  I  shall  never  get  up !" 
Candida  wailed.  "I  will  go  to  the  festa!" 

"You  shall  not  move  out  of  the  house  for  a  whole  week !" 

"The  senora  will  let  me!  I  do  not  care  for  you  or 
what  you  say!" 

Elsie  opened  the  door.  From  what  she  had  heard  she 
was  prepared  to  find  Candida,  with  the  native  floridity 
of  expression,  crouching  on  the  floor,  Selena  standing 
above  her.  The  added  touches  to  the  scene  took  her 
breath.  Candida  was  indeed  on  the  floor,  but  fairly 
spilled  on  it  and  garbed  so  that  at  first  she  gave  the  im- 
pression of  something  between  an  attendant  in  a  Turkish 
bath  and  a  hula-hida  dancer. 


244  The  Next  Corner 

She  had  on  one  of  Elsie's  filmiest  nightgowns ;  this  was 
dropped  far  down  from  her  shoulders  and  fastened  under 
the  armpits  with  a  blue  and  white  towel  as  a  sash;  every 
ornament  of  Elsie's,  including  a  mass  of  native  bead  and 
metal  necklaces  chromatic  in  color,  bought  by  Robert 
as  curiosities,  clanked  on  her  bared  bosom;  the  claret- 
red  bougainvillea  made  into  huge  rosettes  were  back  of 
each  ear;  and  she  had  used  the  scent  bottles  so  lavishly, 
that  gusts  of  mixed  fragrance  came  upward  with  her 
every  lurch. 

All  this,  barbaric  with  her  tawny  flesh,  suggested  some 
jungle  orgy;  her  face,  dumbfounding,  marked  its  cres- 
cendo, as  a  long  screech  might,  for  it  was  plastered  with 
white  and  red,  changed  by  crayon  daubing  from  every 
vestige  of  its  own  expression,  her  full  lips  under  a  coat 
of  scarlet  paste  seeming  of  negroid  thickness.  As  tears 
ran  in  cross  streams  over  this  mixture,  a  painter's  pal- 
lette  rag  could  not  have  been  more  splashed. 

Elsie's  eyes  took  in  these  startling  notes  and,  seeking 
explanation,  looked  across  at  her  toilet  table.  She  found 
it  there  in  the  sight  of  her  old  Paris  box  of  cosmetics 
which  stood  open,  its  contents  scattered.  As  it  was  very 
pretty  —  a  novelty  of  imported  suede,  shaped  like  a  valise 
—  she  had  kept  it  in  the  bottom  of  a  trunk,  and  had  not 
seen  it  since  unpacking  on  her  arrival  at  El  Iris.  That  it 
had  made  its  impression  on  Candida's  memory  was  evident 
to-day. 

After  a  hopeless  look  at  it,  then  at  the  girl  who  was  now 
lying  on  her  back,  her  hands  holding  her  head  as  if 
to  keep  it  from  flying  off,  then  at  Selena  who  somehow 
gave  the  impression  of  a  gray  yarn  stocking  standing  in 
judgment  over  an  artificial  rose  whose  colors  had  run 
in  the  rain,  Elsie  dropped  into  a  chair,  unable  to  keep 
back  an  abrupt  peal  of  laughter. 

"Candida !  You  —  you  —  !"  She  tried  to  find  Spanish 
for  a  severe  reproof,  failed,  and  broke  into  English. 
"You  silly,  silly  creature!  How  —  how  dared  you?" 

These  words  and  the  twist  of  fun  that  went  with  them 


The  Next  Corner  245 

acted  like  electricity  on  Selena.  Before  Candida  could 
do  more  than  turn  over  to  crawl  —  hopefully,  yet  with 
the  humility  of  a  worm  —  toward  her  young  mistress, 
she  changed  from  a  yarn  stocking  to  a  crowbar.  Her  face 
settled  into  grimness  as  she  swept  a  look  of  wrath  over 
Elsie. 

"You  can  laugh  at  her !  This  girl  is  bad  —  bad  —  and 
you  know  it.  I  find  her  here,  half-naked  this  way,  painted 
like  a  savage,  twisting  and  turning  before  that  mirror, 
ogling  herself  ovt.  her  shoulder,  and  at  last  kissing  — 
do  you  hear  ?  —  kissing  her  own  arm  in  a  disgusting 
admiration.  And  you  laugh  at  her !  Are  you  aware  that 
you're  making  yourself  an  ally  of  this  creature's  against 
me?" 

Elsie  had  quickly  sobered,  her  eyes  very  dark  and  with 
their  still  look.  Through  the  first  words  there  had  come 
to  her  nothing  less  than  the  cold  breath  of  hatred.  She 
waited  until  Selena's  question  died  on  a  rasping  note 
before  she  stood  up. 

"Aren't  you  exciting  yourself  without  reason?"  she  said 
quietly.  "The  girl  hasn't  committed  a  crime,  you  know." 
Without  waiting  for  a  reply  she  looked  down  at  Candida. 
"Are  your  clothes  here?"  she  asked. 

"Si,  senora,"  Candida  quavered.  She  had  not  under- 
stood a  word  of  the  English  and  had  kept  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  of  the  speakers  in  the  most  racking 
anxiety. 

"Go  over  there  by  the  bed  and  put  them  on.  Wash 
your  face,  too  —  at  once !" 

Still  Candida  remained  kneeling,  trying  miserably  to 
read  Elsie's  face  for  the  one  thing  that  was  of  moment  to 
her. 

"Senora,  senora,"  she  bleated  and  thumped  her  head 
with  fists  as  hard  as  door  knobs,  "pardon  me !  I  am  sorry 
that  I  touched  your  things.  Do  anything  to  me  for  that 
—  to-morrow  —  only  say  that  I  can  go  to  the  fest a  with 
Domingo  after  dinner  to-night !"  She  crawled  sinuously 
to  where  she  could  lay  her  cheek  on  Elsie's  foot.  "Only 


246  The  Next  Corner 

say  that,  senora!  Oh,  say  it,  for  the  love  of  God,  or  I 
shall  die !  I  shall  die  here  this  minute  —  without  a  priest 
—  if  I  cannot  go !" 

"You  can't  go !"  Miss  Maury  interposed  in  her  close- 
lipped  voice  and  painfully  distinct  Spanish.  "I  have  told 
you  so." 

"Don't  listen  to  her!"  Candida  shrieked  and  pressed 
rapid  kisses  on  the  slipper's  buckle.  ''She  has  no  heart! 
She  is  made  of  stone,  that  one !  She  is  an  old  maid !" 

Selena  drew  her  breath  through  her  -"ose  with  a  hissing 
sound  and  squared  her  shoulders.  "You  have  heard  me 
insulted,"  she  said,  and  fixed  a  waiting  look  on  Elsie. 

"Get  up,  Candida.  You  must  ask  Sefiorita  Maury's 
pardon  for  what  you  have  said." 

"I  will !  I  will !  Forgive  me,  senorita!"  She  swung 
about,  tried  to  embrace  Selena's  knees  and,  after  getting 
a  futile  kick,  swung  back  to  pray  again  to  Elsie's  foot. 
"But  only  say  that  I  can  go  to  the  festa  to-night  with 
Domingo !  Only  say  it !" 

"Yes,  you  may  go,"  Elsie  said  with  almost  a  sorrowful 
kindness. 

Selena's  mouth  opened  with  a  snap.  It  stayed  open.  She 
grew  ghastly,  and  during  the  time  that  Candida  laughed 
and  cried  and  called  down  blessings  from  heaven  on  her 
senora  while  hurrying  to  the  corner  to  change  to  workday 
clothes,  she  remained  looking  at  Elsie  with  an  icy  rage 
that  had  an  enduring  quality. 

"You  mean  what  you  said  to  her?"  she  demanded  at 
last,  not  above  a  breath. 

"Yes,  I  mean  it !" 

"After  you  heard  me  tell  her  she  could  not  go?" 

"Even  after  that." 

"Are  you  not  going  to  punish  her?"  Her  eyes  with 
some  envenomed  meaning  remained  fixed  on  Elsie's  face 
that  seemed  as  quiet  as  it  was  deadly  pale. 

Inwardly  she  was  far  from  quiet.  Unrest,  whose  root 
was  in  her  own  sense  of  guilt,  made  her  draw  back  from 
those  cold  eyes  that  seemed  reading  the  secrets  of  her  heart 


The  Next  Corner  247 

across  the  gulf  between  them.  With  this  the  throb  of  wil- 
fulness  natural  to  her  could  not  be  kept  down  and  broke 
into  words. 

"I  think  she  has  been  punished  enough.  You  frightened 
her  almost  to  death  at  the  thought  of  losing  her  night's 
dancing.  She's  young.  She's  full  of  the  love  of  life,  the 
desire  to  be  happy.  Unlike  you,  I  don't  believe  she  means 
any  harm.  You  merely  saw  a  dress  rehearsal  of  her  idea 
of  gorgeousness.  As  for  using  that  cosmetic  stuff  of 
mine?  Well,  of  course,  she  made  herself  utterly  absurd 
—  poor  Candida !  In  the  first  place  nature  has  made 
her  almost  too  vivid  and  she  did  not  need  it;  besides,  she 
used  too  much !" 

"So  that's  the  way  you  look  at  it."  The  grim  meaning 
of  her  look  intensified.  "You  don't  denounce  her  for 
this  gross  exhibition,  for  making  herself  look  like  —  well, 
like  something  I  won't  even  name.  You'll  find  the  word 
in  the  Old  Testament !"  she  flung  out. 

"I'm  not  as  well  acquainted  with  the  Bible  as  you  are, 
Selena,"  Elsie  answered,  and  managed  a  smile.  "But 
isn't  the  New  Testament  kinder?  Isn't  there  something 
very  beautiful  about  charity  and  not  judging?" 

Candida  had  placed  the  borrowed  clothes,  folded,  on 
the  bed,  and  called  out,  while  wildly  flickering  her  dark, 
fine  fingers:  "Gracias,  senora!  Ah,  gracias,  gracias," 
as  she  made  an  emotional  exit. 

A  silence  followed.  It  seemed  to  Elsie  to  hold  the 
menace  of  poised  vitriol.  Her  nerves  grew  rigid  in  a 
way  that  called  for  some  sort  of  violence  as  relief.  It 
would  have  soothed  her  to  have  taken  Selena  by  the 
shoulders  and  thrust  her  from  the  room.  She  stifled 
this  feeling  under  her  still  seeming  calm,  took  off  her  hat, 
and  unfastened  her  gown. 

"No  time  now  to  rest  before  dinner,"  she  said,  sitting 
before  the  mirror  while  drawing  the  pins  from  her  hair. 
"Robert'll  be  along  very  soon.  He  said  he'd  surely  get  here 
to-night,  and  it's  almost  seven.  Hadn't  you  better  get 
ready?" 


248  The  Next  Corner 

Selena  presented  a  strange  picture.  She  remained  very 
stiff  in  the  center  of  the  bedroom,  her  dry  mouth  working 
in  the  fumbling  way  of  the  old  when  excited.  Some  imp 
seemed  possessing  her,  urging  her  to  speak  while  she 
struggled  to  be  wise  and  resist. 

Elsie's  bare  shoulders  and  arms,  over  which  the  wheat- 
colored  hair  had  come  glistening  down,  decided  her.  To 
half-undress  before  her  like  that !  —  It  was  something 
she  would  never,  even  if  ill,  have  thought  of  doing  her- 
self!  It  was  of  a  part  with  the  sort  of  underwear  that 
was  disclosed,  —  scarcely  more  than  gauze ;  of  a  part 
with  the  paints  and  powders  in  that  French  box;  of  the 
sinful  and  passionate  account  in  the  newspaper  months 
ago,  and  that  she  was  sure  had  not  been  shown  to 
Robert;  a  part  too  of  Candida's  shamelessness  and  this 
young  woman's  easy  and  cynical  amusement  at  it !  Her 
prejudices  boiled  to  white  heat  and  a  sour  froth.  Silence 
became  impossible. 

"I  have  a  few  words  to  say  to  you  before  I  go,"  shot 
breathlessly  from  her.  Her  voice,  though  tense  and 
clipped,  was  far-carrying. 

"Yes?"  and  Elsie  began  combing  her  hair.  She  ex- 
pected some  questions  or  information  about  household 
affairs,  and  from  the  tone  something  of  a  fault-finding 
nature. 

"You  may  as  well  know  what  I  honestly  think  of  the 
whole  situation  in  this  house,"  were  Selena's  first  surpris- 
ing words.  "That  girl  was  able  to  gratify  her  evil  in- 
stincts —  through  you.  Here  in  your  room  she  found  all 
that  she  needed  in  that  disgusting  French  box  —  oh,  I 
looked  at  the  name  on  it !  Besides,  one  glance  would  show 
that  it  could  only  have  come  out  of  Paris.  It's  easy  to  see, 
too,  that  the  contents  were  often  used  before  —  often ! 
So  it's  no  wonder  you'd  laugh  at  her  and  send  her  away 
rejoicing  in  her  vicious  inclinations.  Why  not?  Why 
should  I  expect  you  to  do  anything  else?  Except  that 
in  her  silly  masquerade  she  was  a  caricature,  I'm  sure  she 
was  much  what  you  were  in  Paris,"  she  sneered  slowly. 


The  Next  Corner  249 

"If  one  could  only  know  all  the  truth  of  that  time  it 
would  be  interesting,  I've  no  doubt  —  though  hardly  im- 
proving." 

Elsie's  hand  with  the  comb  had  dropped,  her  attention 
changing  to  a  stare  of  dumb  bewilderment  at  Selena.  The 
attack,  unbelievably  daring,  had  so  startled  her  she  felt 
as  if  a  metallic  clang  had  struck  upon  her  brain,  for  a 
moment  paralyzing  it. 

"You  must  remember  that  /  have  been  in  Paris.  Only 
once  —  and  that  was  enough.  One  glimpse  of  the  night 
life  there  sent  Mrs.  Hoskins  and  me  flying  from  it  in 
disgust.  But  I  know  the  place,  you  see.  I  also  know  the 
meaning  of  your  cosmetics,  for  I  caught  sight  of  a  flash- 
light photograph  among  your  things  —  a  crowd  of  mas- 
queraders,  you  among  them  in  a  rag  of  black  gauze  above 
your  ankles,  your  face  all  made  up  with  that  mess  and 
a  lot  of  black  patches.  You  never  use  the  stuff  now  — 
too  cautious?  —  And  what  of  that  newspaper  clipping 
you  got  in  February?  You  left  it  behind  you  in  the 
patio,  and  I  glanced  at  it.  Your  mother  sent  it  —  and 
a  nice  account!"  Her  pause  here  was  expressive  before 
she  added  with  edged  slowness:  "Was  the  society  woman 
mentioned  in  it  —  a  friend?  —  Oh,  I  know  you  don't 
think  me  worth  your  attention,"  she  continued  compla- 
cently, " —  think  me  old  and  dull !  But  you're  mistaken. 
I  can  put  two  and  two  together  as  quickly  as  you  can! 
I've  watched  your  inspection  of  every  letter  that  comes 
to  this  house  and  ahead  of  any  one  else!"  Spurred  to 
more  vigor  by  the  dazed  guilt  Elsie  could  not  keep  out 
of  her  face,  she  became  coarse  under  her  attenuated  re- 
finement. "I've  seen  my  poor  brother  fooled  by  you  while 
all  the  time  he's  of  no  value  to  you  except  as  a  check 
book !  But  let  me  tell  you  that  even  without  these  facts 
I'd  see  through  you  by  instinct!  There  are  things  that 
good  women  feel.  There  are  things  that  the  wrong  sort 
of  women  can't  hide  from  them.  After  your  treatment 
of  me  here  to-day  before  that  horrible  girl,  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  let  you  know  just  what  I  think.  But  I've  no 


250  The  Next  Corner 

fear  that  you'll  dare  to  complain  of  me  to  my  brother  — 
you'd  be  afraid  that  he  — " 

The  door  to  the  hall  came  inward  sharply  and  Robert 
stood  there.  He  remained  in  the  opening,  his  hand 
pressed  down  on  the  knob.  A  sick,  white  look  to  his  face 
showed  as  grayness  through  its  brown;  his  eyes  were  as 
sad  as  they  were  stern;  yet  they  were  stern  in  a  way  to 
inspire  fear,  the  pupils  so  spread  there  was  almost  no 
ring  of  blue  around  them. 

After  the  briefest  glance,  all  sorrow  and  an  angry  sort 
of  tenderness  at  Elsie,  he  spoke  to  his  sister,  whose  head 
had  jolted  up  in  defiance,  though  her  look  was  as  fright- 
ened as  that  of  a  horse  balking  at  a  precipice. 

"I  heard  some  of  what  you  said,  Selena  —  not  much  — 
but  enough!"  He  pushed  the  door  wider.  "I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

"WELL  —  speak !"  Selena  cried,  trembling. 

"Outside,"  said  Robert,  and  added  bitterly,  "where  you 
belong." 

He  did  not  look  again  at  Elsie,  who  had  turned  away, 
her  elbows  on  the  toilet  table,  her  hair  cloaking  her 
shoulders.  As  Selena  still  fluttered  obstinately  without 
moving  from  where  she  stood,  he  came  to  her  and  in  a 
quietly  authoritative  way  that  counted  out  discussion, 
led  her  by  the  arm  until  close  to  the  threshold.  There 
she  shook  herself  free. 

"Don't  imagine  I'll  stay  in  this  house  another  hour  — 
not  one !"  she  said  to  him  in  a  storm  of  cold  rage. 

"Excellent."  Robert  ran  this  in,  an  approving  com- 
ment, a  likeness  in  it  to  the  thud  of  a  rubber  stamp  affixing 
a  signature. 

"I  can  see  just  what  you'll  do  and  say  —  just  the  sort 
of  fool  you'll  continue  to  be !  —  There's  a  boat  for  the 
States  on  Wednesday.  The  Suttons  are  going  on  it.  — 
I'll  get  to  Valencia  to-night.  I'll  stay  at  a  hotel  and  take 
the  morning  train  to  Caracas  and  join  the  Suttons  there. 
As  fast  as  I  can  throw  my  things  into  a  trunk  I'll  go.  — 
Someone's  got  to  drive  me  to  Valencia  in  half  an  hour.  — 
Nothing  will  induce  me  to  spend  another  night  in  this 
house !" 

"Your  decision  couldn't  be  improved  on,  and  I'll  drive 
you  in,  myself,"  Robert  said  in  a  new  and  peaceful  tone. 
"I'll  see  you  made  comfortable  there.  I'll  see,  too,  that 
you  are  comfortable  as  long  as  you  live.  But  not  in  my 
house.  Never  with  me  again!  What  else  I  have  to  say 
to  you  won't  be  said  here." 

Elsie  heard  the  door  close.  She  remained  just  as  she 

251 


252  The  Next  Corner 

was,  gazing  in  a  dull  way  into  the  glass.  All  of  her 
quivered  in  restrained  excitement  after  the  whole  disrupt- 
ing scene  from  which  two  things  separated,  grew  sharp- 
ened —  Robert's  weary  yet  flashing  face  with  almost  an 
anguish  of  protectiveness  in  his  one  look  toward  her,  and 
two  phrases  of  Selena's  that  had  a  lash's  sting:  "There 
are  things  that  good  women  feel.  There  are  things  that 
the  wrong  sort  of  woman  can't  hide  from  them." 

Was  this  true?  In  dreary  desperation  she  studied  her 
face.  Often  she  had  felt  it  strange  that  no  mark  of  the 
heart-shaking  passion  and  grief  suffered  at  El  Miradero 
had  fixed  itself  outwardly  upon  her,  that  she  should  have 
remained  so  ingenuously  fair.  She  had  been  wrong? 
That  she  was  a  woman  who  had,  in  effect,  become  a  man's 
mistress  and  as  a  result  had  quickly  known  horror,  terror, 
the  brackish  taste  of  brutal  disrespect,  the  present  sense 
of  day  by  day  deceit  were  all  there,  somewhere?  —  in 
some  faint,  betraying  mark,  like  the  covert  speck  of  blight 
in  a  fair  fruit? 

Deep  sadness  went  over  her.  Without  moving,  in  a 
trance  of  heaviness,  her  thoughts  began  a  requiem  for  all 
her  failings,  for  her  ill  fortune  and  for  loss.  If,  long 
ago,  she  had  insisted  on  going  to  Burmah  with  Robert !  — 
If  she  had  never  spun  in  the  Paris  danse  macabre.  —  Or, 
going  there,  had  held  fast  to  gravity,  strength ; 
had  struggled  harder  against  Arturo's  seductive  power, 
killed  her  infatuation  for  him  at  the  beginning !  —  If  she 
had  but  gone  to  England  with  Robert  that  night  in  June ! 
—  If  she  had  parted  from  Serafin  in  time  —  had  not  gone 
up  the  mountain  with  him !  —  If  her  eyes  had  never  rested 
on  El  Miradero !  —  If  she  could  go  back  and  be  no  more 
committed  to  the  wrong  than  was  the  foolish  mondame 
who  had  alighted  at  Bilbao  packed  full  of  good  intentions, 
with  no  memory  now  of  one  black  and  galling  night  to 
bruise  her  and  no  record  of  her  madness  there,  written 
by  herself  and  floating  somewhere  in  the  world,  to  fear! 

Still  motionless,  her  thoughts  slipped  to  an  earlier  block 
of  her  life  and  she  saw  herself  as  a  very  young  mother  in 


The  Next  Corner  253 

grief  over  an  adored  child  who  would  never  speak  to  her 
again.  That  pain  had  not  died.  The  pang  of  loss  where 
there  has  been  deep  love  cannot  die.  Years  pass  above 
it  only  as  snow  falls  on  a  garden,  cloaking  its  form  but 
with  the  living  seed  underneath,  'so  that  memories  doing 
the  work  of  the  warm  spring  rains  will  bring  the  flower 
of  pain  magically  to  life  over  and  over. 

With  this  thought  the  cry  that  had  silently  crept 
through  her  in  the  bedroom  at  El  Miradero,  before  be- 
ginning her  letter,  rose  with  unbearable  sadness  within 
Elsie  —  Ah,  had  her  darling  lived !  .  .  .  And  on  this  an- 
other longing  pressed  —  Ah,  had  she  then  loved  Robert 
as  she  knew,  to-night,  that  she  had  surely  come  to  love 
him! 

Her  head  sank  lower,  her  eyes  closed,  she  felt  half- 
swooning  in  regret.  And  then,  far  down  in  the  blackness 
back  of  her  shut  eyelids  into  which  her  knuckles  were  dug 
with  unconscious  force,  there  floated  before  her  sight  the 
face  of  another  little  child  with  much  of  the  irresistible 
beauty  of  the  one  she  had  lost.  From  a  vast  distance  it 
glimmered,  ghostlike  —  came  nearer  —  smiled  at  her  —  a 
faint  smile  at  first  that  changed  slowly  to  a  very  wistful 
appeal  for  welcome.  "Don't  you  want  me?"  the  look  said. 
"Wouldn't  I  comfort  you?  Wouldn't  you  love  me?".  .  . 

Elsie's  breath  broke.  She  kept  yearning  watch  upon 
the  small  wide-eyed  face,  so  like  a  blossom  and  a  star. 
When  it  would  drift  from  her,  almost  sink  back  into  the 
shadows  from  which  it  had  stolen,  her  will  recalled  it, 
held  it  before  her  with  tenacity  and  adoration.  She 
shivered,  her  heart  seemed  breaking,  her  throat  was  thick 
with  pain.  She  was  in  the  throe  of  the  most  ancient  ache 
of  woman  since  the  beginning  of  the  world.  Ah,  here  was 
her  need !  This,  and  this  alone,  could  make  true  happi- 
ness for  her.  She  was  that  sort  of  woman  —  needing  love 
and  loving  motherhood.  The  little  cajoling  face,  with 
shy  eyes  and  a  mouth  like  an  opening  bud,  made  her  know 
this  now.  Now!  —  In  the  confusion  of  her  life,  in  the 
turmoil  of  regrets,  and  the  dread. 


254  The  Next  Corner 

A  clicking  sound,  with  subservience  in  it,  pierced  the 
deep  stillness.  Elsie  recognized  it  as  the  tapping  of  Can- 
dida's long  nails  on  the  stained  glass  of  the  door  into  the 
hall.  At  a  call  to  enter,  she  came  bearing  a  letter. 

A  very  different  Candida  this,  from  the  one  that  had 
brought  judgment  clattering  on  her  head.  Her  drenched 
and  plastered  hair,  sleek  as  a  skullcap,  was  dragged  so 
tightly  into  a  door-knob  knot,  the  strain  must  have 
hurt  her  face;  her  skin  glistened  like  brown  earthenware 
from  a  harsh  scrubbing  with  soap ;  her  gown  was  her 
plainest  butcher-blue  nankeen.  With  these  notes  she  had 
taken  on  the  mild  stare  of  a  cow  and  the  deference  of  an 
undertaker.  She  was,  in  fact,  so  unnaturally  sedate, 
counterfeit  was  written  upon  her  from  crown  to  toe. 

After  Elsie  gave  a  look  at  the  letter  that  showed  her 
Robert's  writing,  her  attention  came  back  to  Candida. 
Her  thoughts  of  the  regrettable  in  her  own  life  had 
softened  and  enriched  her  sympathy  for  the  young  girl 
who,  in  her  elemental  way,  was  struggling  in  the  grasp 
of  the  furies  that  make  for  discontent  in  women  and  plan 
their  mistakes. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Candida,  I  want  to  ask  you  some- 
thing," she  said  with  great  kindness,  looking  seriously  into 
the  black  eyes  that  sprang  suddenly  wide  with  an  inquiry 
in  which  there  was  fear.  "Miss  Maury  says  that  you  are 
not  a  good  girl.  Tell  me  the  truth.  Are  you?" 

Candida  tried  to  speak,  choked,  and  after  a  silence  her 
face  gave  a  twist  of  misery. 

"Is  Domingo  a  good  man?  Does  he  want  to  marry 
you?"  Elsie's  labored  Spanish  gave  the  words  peculiar 
impressiveness.  "Is  it  marriage  for  you,  Candida?" 

"He  says  so,  senora.  And  oh  —  I  am  good !"  She 
grew  suddenly  wild,  flung  both  arms  across  her  eyes  and 
rocked  as  if  to  solemn  music.  "I  am  —  stitt  —  good ! 
But  Domingo  tries  to  make  me  not  care  to  stay  good." 
Her  arms  dropped.  A  distraught  look  had  come  to  her 
eyes.  "He  says  we  are  fools  to  waste  our  lives  without 
love,  I  know  he  will  say  that  again  at  the  festa  to-night. 


The  Next  Corner  255 

Oh,  it  is  so  long  to  wait  to  marry !  One  gets  old  so  soon ! 
Why,  look  —  I  am  almost  —  twenty !" 

Elsie  lifted  one  of  the  beautiful  citron-colored  hands, 
icy  cold  in  the  fingers,  the  palm  burning  —  and  held  it  in 
a  friend's  way. 

"Why  can't  you  marry  —  if  he  is  good  —  wants  you 
for  his  wife?" 

"He  has  no  money  now,  senora." 

"He  has  his  wages  and  you  have  yours.  You  could 
both  still  live  here,  together.  Wouldn't  this  be  enough 
for  a  beginning?" 

"Ah,  no,  senora,"  Candida  said  sadly,  torso,  head,  lips 
and  brows  all  fluttering  in  a  negation  that  had  a  breeze's 
sweep.  "You  see  he  had  saved  two  thousand  pesetas  — 
but  he  had  to  send  it  all  to  his  sister  in  Bolivia.  His  old 
mother  and  father  live  with  her,  and  they  were  very  sick. 
As  for  me,  to  work  here  after  I  marry  —  how  could  that 
be?  How  could  I  wait  upon  you,  senora,  when  I  would 
be  having  a  baby?  You  would  not  want  me  —  that  way !" 

Elsie  smiled  at  the  barbarous  simplicitj^  of  the  words. 
"That  might  not  happen  at  once"  — 

"Oh,  yes,  it  would !  Si!  Si!  My  mother  —  very  quickly 
—  she  had  sixteen,"  Candida  sighed,  nodding  briskly. 

"Very  well.  Now  listen  to  me."  Elsie  patted  her  hand 
and  in  her  slow  Spanish  spoke  earnestly,  as  if  to  a  child. 
"Domingo  will  marry  you  without  delay,  and  I  will  get 
another  maid  when  it  is  necessary.  To-morrow  the  senor 
will  give  him  the  two  thousand  pesetas.  I  will  ask  him 
to  do  this.  Then  there  will  be  no  more  unhappiness  for 
you.  What  do  you  say,  Candida?" 

It  would  be  impossible  to  translate  what  Candida  said. 
In  a  whirl  of  broken  cries  she  dropped  to  her  knees  and, 
as  before,  laid  her  cheek  on  Elsie's  slipper. 

"Don't  talk  to  my  foot !"  Elsie  smiled  and  gave  a  little 
push  to  the  prostrate  shoulder.  "Come,  come!  Look  at 
me,  my  dear." 

"Madre  mia!"  Candida,  in  an  ecstacy  of  tears,  was 
now  risen  to  her  knees  and  addressing  the  raftered  ceiling. 


256  The  Next  Corner 

"Ah,  mlra!  See !  —  see  an  angel  is  standing  here  who 
turns  all  poor  Candida's  sorrow  to  joy!  Ah,  mira!  — 
so  beautiful,  so  excellent,  so  wonderful,  so  perfect,  so  — " 

"That's  enough,  Candida,"  Elsie  laughed.  "Now  stand 
up."  And  as  she  did  so,  breathless,  shining,  still  mutter- 
ing enthusiasms,  her  young  mistress  gazed  into  her  eyes 
with  a  sadness  that  enveloped  her,  made  a  deep  quiet 
fill  her.  "I  will  do  this  for  you.  What  will  you  do  for 
me?" 

"Anything,  senora!  Whatever  the  senora  wants  is 
hers !" 

"Bueno!  Here,  then  is  what  I  want  —  that,  for  me, 
you  give  up  the  festa,  that  you  do  not  go  to  the  dance 
in  the  woods  with  Domingo  to-night." 

For  a  few  seconds  Candida  was  sheer  blankness,  —  her 
look  almost  idiotic  from  disappointment. 

"Domingo  must  go,"  said  Elsie,  "but  alone.  You  will 
be  at  home  with  me  —  safe !  Do  you  understand,  my 
dear?" 

Candida  lifted  her  brows.  One  index  finger  shot  to 
her  lips,  remained  pressed  there,  conveying  caution.  She 
suddenly  twinkled  into  a  smile  of  the  most  hardened  guile. 
"Yes,  I  understand.  He  to  go  and  be  sorry  —  so  he  could 
die!  —  that  I  am  not  there  with  him.  And  I  to  be  happy 
here,  alone  —  since  marriage  is  so  near.  Ah !  how  wise 
my  young  senora  is  —  And  may  I  tell  him  now?" 

"In  a  moment.  Wait  outside  the  door  while  I  read  my 
letter.  There  may  be  an  answer." 

"But  the  senor  has  gone,"  Candida  cried. 

"Gone!"  Elsie  said  this  in  her  thoughts. 

"Yes,  he  was  a  long  time  in  his  room,  then  brought  out 
the  letter,  then  took  Senorita  Maury  and  her  trunks  off 
in  the  big  car.  He  drove  it  himself." 

Elsie  waited  until  the  girl,  with  a  rocking  sort  of  rap- 
ture, had  hurried  away,  before  she  opened  the  envelope: 

"My  dear  Elsie  —  I  don't  want  to  see  you  until  I've 
seen  the  last  of  Selena.  I  can't  explain  her  atrocious 


The  Next  Corner  257 

conduct  except  as  a  sort  of  insanity  that  sometimes 
attacks  the  old.  People  grow  old  in  many  ways,  but  there 
are  two  that  stand  out  prominently,  I've  often  noticed. 
They  grow  tender  and  dim  like  sweet  lavender,  long 
faded,  as  it  steals  from  an  old-time  trunk;  or  they  grow 
rank  and  bitter  like  wine  that  changes  to  vinegar,  and  this 
generally  when  they  have  kept  themselves  separate  from 
the  things  that  make  living  a  real  and  unselfish  thing, 
as  Selena  has.  She  is  the  result  of  a  stonily  detached 
life  —  one  without  a  high  heartbeat  or  a  missed  beat  — 
centralized  in  a  dry,  bleached  way.  So  make  what  al- 
lowances you  can  for  her. 

"I  shall  take  her  away  without  having  you  go  through 
the  formality  of  leave-taking  with  her.  In  your  kind- 
ness probably  you  would  want  this.  I  do  not.  She  does 
not  deserve  it. 

"I'll  stay  with  her  until  she  is  satisfactorily  settled  for 
the  night,  and  I  won't  be  back  till  late.  Please  forget 
as  soon  as  you  can,  her  hideous  and  outrageous  insults. 
Eat  your  dinner,  rest,  try  to  sleep.  I  will  see  you  in  the 
morning  when  we  will  not  speak  of  this  thing  at  all.  Let 
us  never  speak  of  it !  You  know  all  that  I  feel  and  must 
not  say. 

"As  always,  yours  —  ROBERT." 

The  pages  fluttered  to  Elsie's  knees.  She  sat  very  still, 
turned  sideways  in  the  chair,  her  elbow  on  top  of  it.  Out 
of  all  the  words  that  set  forth  Robert's  allegiance  to  her, 
she  was  intensely  conscious  of  one  short  phrase:  "She 
does  not  deserve  it."  Ah,  there  was  the  judgment  that 
was  in  him  under  all  his  generosity !  She  saw  it  as  a  steel 
bar,  hidden  under  a  cloak  of  kind  leaves,  even  of  flowers. 

Following  the  consciousness  of  the  words,  others  came 
out  of  herself  —  thin,  apprehensive,  sick  —  and  joined 
them,  trailing  after  them :  "He  will  meet  Domingo  on  the 
road,  coming  back  with  the  evening  mail  —  with  the 
foreign  letters.  He  will  stop  and  take  his  own.  —  He  will 
take  his  own !" . 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IT  was  nearly  eleven  when  Robert  said  good-by  to 
Selena.  During  the  time  spent  together  Elsie's  name 
had  not  been  mentioned  between  them,  though  thought  of 
her  was  very  present  back  of  their  new  formality 
and  during  the  businesslike  arrangement  of  Selena's  future 
and  income.  She  refused  to  eat  and  he  dined  alone  in 
the  public  room  of  the  hotel,  taking  her  afterward  to 
talk  to  relatives  of  the  people  she  was  to  join  in  Caracas 
the  next  day,  and  even  waiting  there  until  she  was  ready  to 
leave,  so  that  he  might  return  with  her  to  see  her 
comfortably  settled  for  the  night. 

"I  hope  that  when  we  meet,  Selena,  time  will  have 
softened  what  is  so  cruel  in  you  now,"  were  Robert's  last 
words  as,  after  the  parting,  he  gave  a  fling  to  his  sharply 
level  shoulders  and  turned  again  to  gaze  earnestly  and 
kindly  at  her. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  softened!"  Selena  rapped  back 
with  fierce  coldness,  her  drawn-in  body  looking  more  than 
usually  bony.  "And  I  guess  time  is  about  through  with 
me.  It  won't  bother  trying  any  more  hemstitching  or 
embroidery  on  me.  The  pattern  I  am  —  I  stay.  You 
don't  like  it.  Well,  you  needn't.  I  do!  Good-by." 

As  he  drove  back  in  the  radiance  of  big  stars  that 
showed  the  land  in  velvet-black  outlines,  and  the  moun- 
tains ahead  of  him  as  wraiths  of  snow  in  jagged  drifts, 
he  felt  relief  that  the  chapter  with  Selena  was  closed; 
that  in  the  home  he  was  nearing  no  one  waited  for  him 
but  a  woman  infinitely  dear. 

The  night  was  hot  and  dry.  Small  winds  made  by 
the  motion  of  the  car  beat  upon  his  face  with  the  effect 
of  a  child's  blows  given  in  play ;  they  were  rich  in  perfume, 

258 


The  Next  Corner  259 

mostly  the  luring  mixture  of  the  rose's  sweetness  with 
the  carnation's  spice.  Music  swept  to  him  in  cross 
currents  along  his  way,  —  Spanish  music  that  is  metrical 
love. 

These  impressions  of  warmth,  fragrance  and  melody 
crept  through  his  senses,  fretted  them  to  rebellious  pain, 
while  lulling  them  to  the  exquisite  sort  of  helplessness 
that  the  sick  can  know  even  when  conscious  of  losing  blood 
that  takes  life  with  it.  Glad  to  be  returning  to  Elsie,  his 
thoughts  of  her  had  roots  in  sadness. 

Selena's  continued  suspicions  of  her  interest  in  another 
man  he  dwelt  upon  with  the  ironic  smile  of  the  analyst  who 
knows  the  core  of  a  subject  that  superficial  observers 
take  at  some  chance  value.  Even  so,  while  he  dismissed 
this  possibilty,  his  fancy  knew  a  crushing  feeling,  —  the 
drag-down  of  jealousy,  its  humbling  sickness. 

Another  man  in  his  wife's  life?  A  lover,  waiting 
somewhere?  He  let  himself  consider  this,  and  the  answer 
was  swift.  No,  no !  Elsie  was  not  false.  While  he  felt 
that  her  years  in  Paris  —  a  heady  drink  for  her  ignorance 
—  had  damaged  her  transiently  in  taste  and  in  point  of 
view,  he  did  not  believe  they  had  corrupted  her.  She 
had  been  born  candid  to  bluntness,  —  a  certain  volatile 
wilfulness  natural  to  her  when  she  was  happy,  but  always 
open;  no  duplicity  in  her.  If  what  he  felt  underlay 
Selena's  insinuations  were  true,  she  would  have  told  him 
so  straightly  at  their  meeting  in  New  York.  She  could 
not  have  been  persuaded  to  come  back  to  him  even  in  a  half 
sense.  Nor  would  he  have  wanted  this. 

Certain  of  her  honesty,  his  mind  swung  back  to  the 
questions  that  went  with  him  day  by  day:  Why  had  she 
changed  to  him  so  completely?  Why  had  the  years  apart 
taken  from  her  all  need  of  him  except  as  a  friend  for  an 
occasional  hour?  By  degrees  he  believed  he  read  the  an- 
swer: It  could  only  be  that  from  the  beginning  she  had 
given  him  no  more  than  a  child's  fondness  mixed  with  grati- 
tude for  his  wanting  her  since  she  had  suffered  for  so  long 
as  an  encumbrance  in  her  mother's  life.  Yes,  there  lay  the 


260  The  Next  Corner 

answer  to  the  failure  he  faced  now;  she  had  never  loved 
him  ;  he  had  not  made  her  love  him. 

For  a  long  time  knowledge  of  a  change  in  himself  had 
been  deepening.  He  was  piercingly  conscious  of  it  to- 
night. Selena  had  been  a  special  illumination;  she  had 
poured  light  into  the  corners  of  his  soul.  That  day,  as 
they  stood  at  issue  in  Elsie's  doorway,  there  had  been, 
faintly,  in  the  intolerance  and  austerity  of  her  older  face 
with  eyes  the  color  of  his  own,  just  enough  of  the  mystery 
of  family  likeness  to  startle  him.  In  it  he  had  seen  him- 
self. At  the  thought  his  face  flushed ;  he  flinched,  hating 
it,  while  in  his  unsparing  way  he  continued  to  face  it.  It 
was  true.  The  prudery  that  had  made  of  Selena  a 
warped  celibate  had  likeness  to  a  certain  precisianism  and 
asceticism  in  himself  that  in  earlier  years  had  mastered 
him;  had  made  him  know  almost  a  sensuous  joy  in  the 
pain  he  had  to  endure  to  acquire  a  perfection  of  self- 
control. 

He  scrutinized  this  strata  of  character  as  he  would  a 
vein  in  a  mine,  searching  for  its  source.  Looking  far 
back,  he  saw  it  emanate  from  the  first  Christians  who  in 
the  frenzy  of  conversion  had  labelled  all  sex  feeling  weak- 
ness of  the  flesh,  even  sin;  saw  it  pass  on  to  the  stern, 
self-punishing  Puritans  —  a  strong  strain  of  whose  blood 
was  in  him  —  people  self-mesmerized  into  an  hypocrisy 
that  had  made  life  as  ugly  as  a  stone. 

When  bone-paring  economy  had  enabled  him  to  go 
through  college,  it  was  with  aloofness  to  the  subjects  that 
he  studied  the  classics.  He  had  despised  the  suave  and 
tolerant  philosophers,  had  steeled  himself  against  the 
whole  pagan  cult  that  had  made  human  love  and  the 
beauty  of  the  human  body  natural  blessings  of  which  to 
be  joyously  unashamed,  the  very  sun  being  called  to  wit- 
ness the  wonder. 

And  he  remembered  how  this  fixed  strength  had  re- 
mained with  him  when  college  was  past  and  his  hard 
struggle  toward  success  was  begun,  doing  good  in  keep- 
ing his  life  pure,  doing  harm  in  taking  the  red  corpuscles 


The  Next  Corner  261 

from  imagination,  limiting  its  color  wholly  to  the  gray 
of  self-denial. 

After  his  marriage  there  had  been  no  marked  change. 
He  had  loved  Elsie  in  a  big  way  with  his  lucid  and  kinclly 
mind;  affection  for  her  was  as  natural  to  his  heart  as  to 
a  child's ;  but  in  the  house  of  his  spirit,  passion  had  been 
a  visitor  on  sufferance  who  had  sidled  in  with  an  apolo- 
getic air,  willing  to  hide  on  back  stairs  and  in  secret 
closets,  to  wait  for  moments  when  it  would  be  permitted 
to  break  from  obscurity  and  restraint,  fling  open  doors 
and  declare  itself  owner;  and  always  after  this  brief  as- 
sertion of  power  —  still  with  its  apologizing  smirk  — 
again  be  shut  away. 

He  was  different  now,  because  he  was  older,  and  the 
years  —  in  sevens,  like  a  series  of  waves  —  had  brought 
new  flotsam  to  character.  He  had  quickened  from  in- 
forming experiences  in  strange,  remote  lands.  And  with 
substantial  success,  his  senses,  taking  on  softness  and 
color,  had  become  assertive.  For  a  long  time  now  the 
purism  that  had  ordered  repression  of  his  physical  side, 
while  giving  wrong  names  to  the  simple  and  natural  forces 
of  life,  had  disintegrated,  and  so  thoroughly  that  he  had 
often  laughed  at  that  other  Robert  Maury  as  a  sancti- 
monious precieux.  He  did  not  laugh  to-night,  —  not 
when,  with  hopelessness,  he  remembered  that  the  man  he 
used  to  be  was  the  one  Elsie  had  known  as  a  husband  and 
from  whom  her  heart  had  easily  slipped  away,  very  likely 
forever.  A  sad  fever  filled  him. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  gates  of  his  home  a  servant  was 
lounging,  waiting  to  take  charge  of  the  car.  Robert  en- 
tered silently.  It  was  close  to  midnight,  and  he  felt  sure 
that  Elsie  would  be  asleep.  The  glass  of  her  door  was 
dark.  Only  a  lantern,  hanging  from  the  high  ceiling, 
burned  in  the  center  of  the  hall,  its  light  through  stained 
slides  seeming  a  crimson  star  in  mid-air.  The  place  was 
so  solemnly  still  he  could  hear  a  clock  ticking  in  the  heart 
of  the  house. 

He  drew  off  his  driving  coat   and  the   cap  that  was 


262  The  Next  Corner 

pulled  over  his  eyes,  passed  Elsie's  room  with  careful 
quiet,  and  going  through  the  arch  crossed  the  starlit 
patio  to  where  the  chairs  were  grouped.  It  was  silent 
there,  too,  with  nothing  heard  but  the  fountain's  chime, 
and  the  impulse  to  smoke  for  a  while  in  the  freshness  be- 
fore turning  in  became  stronger.  He  would  dismiss  the 
thoughts  that  had  been  tormenting  him  to  no  hopeful  end 
and  consider  in  detail  a  situation  at  the  mine  that  must 
quickly  be  brought  to  a  conclusion,  one  way  or  the  other. 

Olazaba,  the  Venezuelan,  and  the  native  landowners 
back  of  him  had  refused  to  abide  by  his  refusal  of  their 
proposition,  and  after  more  than  a  month's  silence  had 
begun  again  with  what  seemed  an  accumulation  of  fresh, 
sound  facts,  to  try  to  convince  him  of  the  value  of  their 
desire  to  amalgamate  with  him.  They  had  impressed  him, 
and  yet  to-night,  with  enthusiasm  fading,  the  inclination 
to  agree  was  retreating  from  him. 

What,  after  all,  did  he  positively  know  of  Olazaba  or 
his  backers?  And  what  of  this  instinct  that,  when  he 
seemed  near  a  decision  to  present  their  proposal  to  his 
New  York  principals,  made  him  shy  from  the  ultimate 
step?  While  the  Venezuelans  talked,  the  thing  would 
seem  plausible  and  right.  As  soon  as  he  was  alone  he 
could  not  keep  from  seeing,  as  a  sort  of  persistent  vision, 
the  huge  blocks  of  the  old  stock  in  their  dead  half  of  the 
mine  that,  after  the  fusion  with  him  had  gone  quietly 
through,  they  would  buy  back  from  the  many  small  and 
hopeless  holders  of  it  at  what  would  seem  a  good  price, 
though  in  reality  —  when  the  market  value  was  published 
—  a  very  poor  one.  His  far-seeing,  shadowless,  Scotch 
mind  could  not  escape  the  picture  of  his  company  com- 
mitted to  the  enormous  expense  of  tunnelling  through  the 
mountain  while  the  listed  stock  rose  steadily  in  value,  and 
then  just  before  the  failure  of  the  undertaking  became 
public  —  if  failure  came  —  all  these  men,  with  the  per- 
suasive Olazaba  well  in  the  foreground,  unloading  their 
worthless  holdings  at  the  top  price;  a  thing  which  his 
people's  money  and  their  high  repute  had  made  possible. 


The  Next  Corner  263 

Moreover,  when  he  was  away  from  Olazaba  with  his 
almost  perfect  English,  he  felt  distrust  of  him,  —  though 
mixed  with  an  inclination  to  resist  the  feeling.  The  man's 
personality  was  the  most  puzzling  he  had  ever  met ;  it 
drew  one  to  belief  with  a  tidelike  suction,  flung  one  back 
from  it  as  if  on  the  next  incoming  wave.  Robert  received 
from  association  with  him  a  restful  sort  of  fascination  on 
which  would  trail  an  amused  questioning  as  to  just  what 
price  Olazaba  could  be  made  to  quote  to  sell  his  dearest 
friend?  When  the  man  would  declare,  on  the  many 
highly  colored  oaths  that  a  Spaniard  can  pour  out  with 
staggering  richness  and  naivete,  that  he  did  not,  himself, 
own  one  peseta's  worth  of  the  earlier  stock,  that  he  was 
merely  spokesman  for  those  who  had  much  of  it,  Robert 
did  not  believe  him  at  all,  knew  from  one  or  two  items 
of  information  that  had  come  his  way,  that  Olazaba  had 
been  crippled  by  the  collapse  of  the  old  mine. 

Nevertheless,  childish  liar  though  the  man  was  about 
his  own  affairs,  what  he  advocated  for  the  New  York  com- 
pany might  be  the  giant's  league  boots  to  great  fortune, 
and  if  it  were  — 

The  thought  broke.  The  match  that  he  had  struck 
dropped  from  Robert's  fingers.  His  eyes  were  used  now 
to  the  soft  yet  clear  light  from  the  stars,  hanging  low  in 
the  southern  sky  like  heavenly  lanterns,  and  they  rested 
upon  Elsie.  She  was  lying  there  in  one  of  the  long  chairs. 
She  was  wrapped  to  the  chin,  like  a  big  papoose,  in  a 
velvet  motor  rug  and  fast  asleep  in  the  starry  night. 

This  coming  to  the  patio  had  been  the  result  of  a  mood 
with  her.  After  hearing  from  Domingo  that  the  foreign 
mail  would  not  arrive  until  the  morning,  her  mind  had 
been  relieved.  Nevertheless,  as  she  made  ready  for  bed, 
the  silence  of  the  house,  accented  by  distant  chatter  from 
the  servants'  quarters,  had  produced  a  petrifying  feeling 
of  loneliness;  much  like  the  dissociation  she  had  felt  as 
a  child  in  the  crowded  New  York  hotels  when,  after  Aunt 
Esther  had  left  her  with  admonitions  to  go  to  sleep  in- 
stantly, she  had  lain  with  tight  little  fists  and  eyes  rigidly 


264  The  Next  Corner 

open  upon  the  darkness,  listening  to  the  many  sorts  of 
life  that  whispered  and  rustled  past  her  door. 

She  had  looked  at  the  huge  foreign  bed  under  the  pa- 
goda-like netting  and  had  seen  it  as  a  rock  on  which  she 
would  be  sure  to  toss,  her  brain  more  alive  than  in  the 
daytime.  In  contrast  to  this,  the  air  that  came  in  at  the 
window  when  she  rested  her  cheek  against  the  iron  bars 
was  as  cool,  friendly  fingers  on  her  face,  cajoling  her  to 
come  out.  And  the  fountain's  tinkling  splash  had  called 
to  her. 

She  had  obeyed.  Over  one  of  the  inconsiderable  gowns 
on  which  Selena's  disapproval  had  fallen,  she  had  put  a 
coat-shaped  garment  of  a  silken  Eastern  fibre,  an  iri- 
descent lilac  in  color,  had  snatched  up  the  velvet  rug  from 
a  chair  in  the  hall  and  with  a  pair  of  mules  on,  had  gone 
to  find  peace  under  the  sky. 

Robert  moved  but  a  few  cautious  steps  to  stand  beside 
her  where  he  could  see  her  face  plainly.  It  was  turned 
only  slightly  sideways  and  glimmered  up  at  him,  an  oval 
of  ivory,  yet  with  a  living  glow  about  it  as  she  slept  there 
in  the  blue  bloom  of  the  night.  Something  that  hurt  him 
spoke  wistfully  from  it,  —  the  Madonna  clearness  of  the 
brow  with  the  pale,  plaited  hair  falling  away  with  gravity 
and  simplicity  on  each  side;  the  full  lids  exactly  like  lus- 
trous white  tulip  leaves  laid  upon  her  sight;  a  patience, 
rightfully  belonging  to  an  older  face,  that  showed  in  the 
droop  of  the  lips.  She  made  him  remember  a  picture  of 
the  dead  Elaine  in  her  barge,  going  "upward  with  the 
flood."  He  yearned  over  her. 

And  as  with  folded  arms  he  remained  there  so  close  to 
her,  he  was  acutely  conscious  of  how  far  away  he  was  in 
all  that  meant  living.  The  two  agonies  of  passion  and 
renunciation  filled  him,  —  their  flavors  of  lost  happiness, 
self-disgust  at  failure.  His  eyes  closed  heavily. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

THOUGH  only  a  moment,  it  seemed  to  Robert  a  long 
time  that  he  stood  so.  When  he  looked  at  Elsie  again  he 
saw  that  she  had  awakened. 

She  was  lying  in  strained  stillness,  watching  him.  Some 
direct  meaning  in  her  unmoving  gaze  was  like  the  heat  of 
the  sun,  a  pulling  power  in  it.  He  could  not  stir  or 
speak.  A  look  of  suffering  stole  into  his  face  as  he  re- 
mained entranced,  the  muscles  of  his  folded  arms  con- 
trolled to  the  rigor  of  iron.  Through  the  increasing  pain 
he  was  sure  of  his  strength. 

And  then,  quick  on  the  wake  of  this  confidence,  he 
found  himself  on  his  knees  beside  her. 

"Elsie!"  The  one  word  told  all,  desperation  and  tor- 
ture in  it.  He  drew  the  velvet  rug  sharply  from  her 
lowered  chin,  pulled  it  down  far,  and  on  the  long  splash 
of  her  throat  pressed  his  burning  face.  "Are  you 
angry?"  He  asked  this  over  and  over,  trembling.  "Do 
you  send  me  away?  Must  I  go  away?"  he  implored,  his 
voice  so  husky  she  could  scarcely  hear  him. 

When  her  answer  came  it  was  an  impact  upon  sensa- 
tion. A  suggestion  of  the  ineffable  in  her  yearning  move- 
ment, she  turned  fully  to  him.  Her  face  was  sultry,  con- 
vulsed. Her  arms  went  about  his  head,  wrapping  him  as 
if  sheltering  him  from  some  hurt  that  threatened,  and  in 
a  blaze  she  gave  her  lips  generously  to  him,  clung  to  him 
with  them,  breathless,  relaxed. 

The  delight  of  the  deep  kiss  was  anguish  to  Robert, 
while  it  remade  the  world.  A  lambent  rapture  swept  over 
him  unlike  anything  he  had  ever  felt  before.  It  was  al- 
most a  moment  before  he  could  speak.  When  he  did,  and 
faintly,  the  words  came  with  conviction  through  wonder 

265 


266  The  Next  Corner 

and  distraught  joy:  "You  love  me!     Elsie,  you  love  me! 
Oh,  you  love  me !" 

She  drew  away.  Her  parted  lips  had  a  look  of  thirst, 
and  he  knew  they  were  burning ;  yet  in  her  eyes,  through 
the  radiance,  there  was  a  sorrow  that  confused  him,  — 
heavy  sorrow,  much  like  what  he  had  watched  there  years 
before  when,  grieving  for  the  child,  she  had  sat  apart, 
tearless  and  tragic  in  a  loneliness  that  a  million  clamoring 
to  engage  her  could  not  have  filled.  Her  reply,  given 
slowly,  matched  this  dark  memory,  full  of  some  meaning 
he  could  not  grasp. 

"I  love  you  so  much  my  heart  is  breaking."  And  with 
this  clear,  straight  statement,  she  sank  down,  turned  her 
face  from  him.  "Go  away,"  he  heard  her  whisper.  "Go, 
please." 

"Go?"  he  mocked.  He  even  laughed.  His  arms  went 
avidly  around  her  body,  her  smoothness  and  slenderness 
thrilling  every  nerve.  "Look  at  me!"  he  commanded. 
She  did  and  met  his  ravenous  lips  that  went  over  every 
little  bit  of  her  face,  while  frayed  whispers  came,  — 
nothing  too  wild  nor  too  violent  to  say ;  nor  too  pleading, 
too  abject,  too  foolish. 

Filled  with  a  weakening  joy,  Elsie  lay  against  him, 
tasting  in  that  strange,  mixed  moment  a  strong  draught 
of  life.  Deep,  sweet  love  was  there,  and  delight  that  ran 
high,  and  regret  profoundly  black  curdling  it. 

Her  mind  had  a  vision  apart  from  the  real,  magical 
though  it  was.  She  knew  that  the  time  had  come  when 
choice  must  be  made,  —  confession  or  a  final  silence.  And 
through  this  grinding  realization  she  retained  the  ap- 
pearance of  love,  of  surrender. 

"I  believe  now,"  she  heard  Robert  say  in  a  tone  of  in- 
tolerable delight,  "that  you  have  loved  me  all  the  time  - 
all  the  time,  my  sweet,  and  did  not  know  it  yourself.  Oh, 
you  are  just  the  same  Elsie  that  I  have  loved  from  the 
beginning,  with  a  wild  heart  in  you  that  I  never  knew  of 
till  to-night  —  mad,  sweet,  passionate,  wonderful  darling ! 
—  Oh,  why  did  you  leave  me  so  long  alone?  How  I  have 


The  Next  Corner  267 

missed  you!  I  have  been  so  wretched!  To-night,  driv- 
ing home,  I  knew  all  that  a  homesick  exile  suffers.  And 
more  than  this  —  my  fancies  carried  me  into  hell  in 
imagining  that  I  might  have  to  lose  you,  sooner  or  later, 
to  some  man  that  you'd  love.  I  was  jealous  —  but  that 
word  tells  nothing !  —  I  didn't  know  there  could  be  such 
a  killing  pain  on  earth  as  what  I  felt  for  a  while  as  I 
drove  home.  And  now?  —  You  love  me.  You  do.  Oh, 
you  love  me!" 

There  was  something  uncanny,  almost  dreadful  to  her 
in  the  fact  that  as  Robert  caressed  her,  drunk  with  her, 
and  while  with  lips  and  eyes  and  the  touches  of  her 
small,  alluring  hands  she  responded  to  him,  there  were 
equally  clear  to  her  mind  such  grimly  dissimilar  pictures 
and  the  questions  they  created. 

Could  she  not  by  this  time  count  herself  free  from 
danger?  The  letter  had  not  come,  and  every  day  that 
would  pass  without  bringing  it  —  days  in  which  now  as 
independent  mistress  of  her  home  she  could  watch  for  it 
at  her  ease  —  would  be  as  another  stone  laid  upon  the 
house  of  security.  This  suspense  over,  what  else  had 
she  to  fear? 

The  published  account  of  Arturo's  death  had  been  and 
gone  without  reaching  Robert's  eyes;  as  a  newspaper 
sensation  it  had  had  its  turn,  to  be  swamped  by  fresher 
happenings,  and  most  surely  by  the  tragedies  of  the  war. 

No  one  of  her  Paris  friends  except  Paula  Vrain  knew 
that  she  had  been  the  only  guest  at  El  Miradero  that 
night ;  and  doubtless  Arturo's  death  had  softened  her 
enough  to  keep  her  tongue  from  gossip  of  the  dupe  on 
whom  her  trap  had  closed  more  cruelly  than  she  had 
meant,  for  bad  as  she  was  —  and  she  was  a  thoroughly 
bad  woman  in  being  a  malicious  one  —  she  had,  in  her 
way,  loved  Arturo. 

There  was  left  Serafin,  the,  servant,  who  hated  her. 
She  hardened  herself  to  view  him  from  every  point  as  a 
possible  danger.  He  was  her  enemy,  a  lasting  one, 
implacable,  —  but  he  was  distant,  in  Spain  or  Paris ;  in 


268  The  Next  Corner 

all  likelihood  she  would  never  see  him  again.  Still  if 
from  the  unlooked-for  chance  that  happens  once  in  a  thou- 
sand times  he  should  cross  her  path,  perhaps  in  New  York, 
he  would  feel  himself  powerless  to  do  her  harm.  He  would 
not  know  that  Robert  had  not  received  the  letter,  and 
learning  that  she  was  with  her  husband,  he  would  assume 
that  its  confession  had  not  been  allowed  to  end  their  mar- 
riage ;  so  as  there  would  seem  to  be  no  chink  in  her  armor 
through  which  a  knife-thrust  from  him  could  pierce,  he 
would  be  uninterested.  No,  she  need  not  fear  Serafin. 

These  thoughts  made  their  revolutions  in  Elsie's  mind 
during  a  few  seconds.  Side  by  side  with  Robert's  ignor- 
ance, they  made  a  terrible  impression  on  her  imagination. 
The  tremendous,  nailed-down  solitude  and  secrecy  of  the 
mind!  Two  to  be  face  to  face,  even  in  such  moments  as 
was  this,  and  with  chasms  between  them  in  thought !  He 
did  not  dream!  If  he  knew,  if  he  knew!  If  he  could  see 
what  was  so  plain  to  her !  .  .  . 

She  could  endure  no  more.  Her  arms  closed  frantically 
about  Robert,  almost  a  panic  in  her  half -closed  eyes. 
She  must  hold  him.  Now  that  she  loved  him,  she  must 
keep  him.  There  would  be  things  of  which  she  would  never 
speak.  He  must  never  know  of  the  night  that  had  been  to 
all  other  nights  of  her  life  as  a  searing  burn  on  cool  and 
smooth  flesh. 

"I  will  never  cause  you  pain  again,"  she  said.  "You'll 
see.  I'll  live  only  to  make  you  happy.  Only  that !" 

"And  I  will  never  fail  you." 

What  followed  was  wonderful,  the  mystic  in  it.  Elsie, 
blanched,  except  for  the  agate-black  pupils  and  the 
bright  stain  of  her  mouth,  was  the  ghost  of  a  woman 
in  the  starlight,  yet  one  on  fire.  And  Robert,  with  the 
accent  of  confident,  enraptured  possession  in  the  embrace, 
drew  her  up  to  him,  quite  over  the  couch's  edge,  and 
clasped  her  as  if  they  were  alone  on  some  small  bit  of 
land,  one  in  being,  clinging  fast  to  each  other  for  safety 
against  the  sea  that  swirled  in  great  rises  and  threatened 
them.  Elsie  felt  exalted  in  another  way  —  that  made  her 


The  Next  Corner  269 

want  to  kneel,  her  heart  a  welter  of  humility  —  unim- 
portant, except  as  she  responded  to  this  conquering 
emotion. 

It  held  something  greater  than  their  passion  and  love ; 
separated  from  self.  It  was  a  mighty  force  that  owned 
them.  It  was  a  call  to  life  —  to  her,  to  him  —  but  far 
more  to  those  others  to  come  after  them.  It  was  not  a 
passive  thing,  submitted  for  their  choosing  or  rejection. 
It  was  singularly,  impressively  Nature's ;  the  omnipotent 
in  it ;  both  of  them  as  seeds  beneath  it,  to  be  used  and 
spent  at  its  supreme  Will. 

Robert  lifted  her  up  as  if  she  were  a  child.  Standing 
straight,  and  holding  her  to  him  so  that  her  face  was 
against  his  throat,  he  studied  her  with  a  sacred  sort  of 
tenderness. 

"Do  you  remember,  my  darling,  years  ago  —  after 
Letty  died  —  when  you  were  so  sick,  and  you  wandered 
off,  and  I  found  you  alone  in  the  woods  face  down  on  the 
wet  ground,  crying  your  heart  out  —  and  how  I  carried 
you  home  for  more  than  a  mile  just  this  way?  Do  you 
remember  it?" 

"None  of  the  things  of  that  time  are  clear  to  me, 
Robert  —  only  that  I  seemed  alone  in  a  world  that 
frightened  me  —  a  gray  world,"  she  said,  the  tremble  of 
sad  memory  in  it.  She  smiled  up  at  him  then,  and  sighed. 
"You  are  carrying  me  home  to-night.  And  I  love  you  now. 
Oh,  I  love  you  now !" 

Held  so  —  she  glowing  weakness  resting  in  his  strength 
—  Robert,  for  the  first  time,  went  up  the  gallery  steps 
to  his  wife's  room. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

A  SPIRIT  of  gayety  had  come  to  El  Iris.  For  six  weeks 
Elsie  had  been  mistress  of  the  house.  The  servants  re- 
sponded with  delight  to  her  new  authority,  persuasive 
and  confiding  where  Miss  Maury's  had  been  fear-compel- 
ling. Quick  to  see  the  reunion  of  master  and  mistress, 
they  would  nudge  each  other  and  smile  as  they  watched 
them  meeting  and  parting  with  every  sign  of  sympathetic 
intimacy.  More  than  ever  they  hated  their  former  ty- 
rant's memory;  came  to  see  her  as  the  evil  eye  doing  the 
devil's  work  in  keeping  apart  two  beings  who  really  loved. 
If  Miss  Maury  could  have  heard  the  now  married  Do- 
mingo and  Candida  openly  discussing  her  with  the  other 
servants  in  the  leisure  generously  allowed  them  all,  as 
"the  sour  old  cat",  "the  bag  of  bones",  and  always  pic- 
torially  consigning  her  to  a  place  of  flames  where  she 
would  "eternally  fry",  she  would  have  collapsed  in  horror. 

Elsie's  morning  walks  to  meet  Domingo  ceased,  and  she 
was  easily  able  to  supervise  the  mails  at  home,  without 
appearing  to  do  so.  The  waiting  and  listening  torture 
was  over;  the  cold  pause  whenever  a  door  was  opened 
suddenly;  the  second's  icy  relief  when,  leaving  her  still 
secure,  it  would  close.  While  she  continued  to  interpose 
herself  between  Robert  and  the  chance  of  the  letter's  ar- 
rival, she  no  longer  actively  feared  this. 

Often  now  her  murmuring  song  filled  the  house;  from 
the  big  parlor  where  the  spinet  was  —  a  place  kept  in 
deep  shadow  with  jalousies  closed  the  day  long  against 
the  sun  —  it  would  steal  through  the  opened  doors,  across 
the  patio,  giving  the  impression  of  a  sweet-voiced  spirit 
secluded  in  some  twilit  garden. 

These  were  cloudless  days.  For  the  first  time  in  her 

270 


The  Next  Corner  271 

life  Elsie  was  truly  happy.  When  her  lips  were  not  sing- 
ing, the  hidden  choristers  in  her  soul  whose  music  — 
choked  all  through  childhood  and  made  halting  in  the 
Paris  days  from  the  discords  of  guilt  —  now  rapturously 
free,  sang  full-throated. 

As  was  her  way,  her  passionate  heart  with  its  bent 
toward  idealization  gave  Robert  even  more  of  worship 
than  she  dared  express.  The  feeling  had  the  magic  and 
blood  strength  that  belong  to  all  high  things  of  the  soul 
as  well  as  many  heretofore  unvalued,  small  and  individual 
reasons  for  loving  him  —  for  the  slouching,  straight-shoul- 
dered ease  of  his  long-limbed  body  whose  grace  was  curi- 
ously its  own;  the  northern  energy  flashing  through  the 
brown  of  his  face  where  the  eyes  were  like  the  deepest  tur- 
quoises against  it;  for  his  gentle  yet  subduing  decisions; 
his  warm,  sharply  interested  smile. 

More  than  these  she  loved,  as  women  will,  and  while  it 
piqued  her,  the  sure  knowledge  that  after  the  manner  of 
ambitious  men  of  mind,  there  were  times  when  she  had 
nothing  of  him;  times  of  every  day  when  she  was  only  a 
shadow  in  his  life,  he  all  shrewd,  absorbed  action,  con- 
cerned with  calculations  in  which,  except  as  a  distant 
background,  she  had  no  part. 

She  accepted  this,  yet  sometimes  it  brought  questions : 
Had  she  become  indispensable  to  Robert?  Could  a  woman 
ever  mean  such  vital  need  to  a  man  like  him  so  that  how- 
ever she  disappointed  his  belief  in  her,  he  would  hold  to 
her  —  for  her  sake  let  the  hunger  of  the  senses  impinge 
upon  his  code?  How  far  in  the  white  honesty  of  his 
nature  would  she  fall  if  he  discovered  her  lie  —  ever  knew 
that  with  defiance  and  recklessness,  another  man  had  been 
her  passionate  lover  for  a  long  time  in  one  sense,  and 
apparently  in  the  final  sense?  Would  this  not  be  decided 
for  him  imperiously,  by  something  separate  from  his 
inclination? 

One  day  as  they  both  sat  by  the  table  in  the  patio,  the 
apricot  of  late  afternoon  creeping  under  the  huge  um- 
brella that  hid  them  from  the  house,  he  writing,  she  em- 


272  The  Next  Corner 

broidering,  these  doubts  came  as  if  the  shadow  of  some 
on-coming  trouble,  as  yet  veiled,  had  fallen  with  sudden- 
ness upon  her.  She  felt  a  shiver  as  she  shrugged  them 
off,  put  down  her  work  and  went  to  Robert's  side.  As  he 
continued  bent  over  the  page,  she  forcibly  tilted  up  his 
chin  with  one  finger  and  looked  steadily  into  his  eyes. 

He  had  to  wink  a  few  times  before  his  blue  gaze  quite 
cleared  of  his  reflections  to  take  her  in  as  she  wished. 
When  he  did,  he  drew  down  the  hand  showing  pink  and 
white  against  his  coffee-colored  fingers  with  toil  marks  on 
them,  bent  it  back,  and  after  an  amused  study  of  the 
satiny  palm,  pressed  his  lips  deeply  into  it. 

"I've  never  seen  on  a  woman  in  all  my  life  such  a  little 
paw.  It's  a  baby's !"  He  looked  up  to  say  this  and  kissed 
it  again. 

It  went  through  him  then  how  delicately  youthful  in 
type  Elsie  was.  She  seemed  a  schoolgirl  as  she  stood  be- 
side him,  faintly  smiling.  The  day  had  been  very  hot, 
and  she  wore  white  cotton  net  as  simply  made  as  a  gradu- 
ating frock,  no  color  about  her  but  the  straw-colored 
feathery  hair  and  its  tint  repeated  exactly  in  the  sash 
that  hung  to  the  skirt's  hem. 

She  drew  his  arms  tightly  about  her  as  she  slipped  to 
a  seat  on  his  knee. 

"Don't  establish  yourself  permanently  there,"  Robert 
frowned,  a  note  of  laughter  in  the  words,  "as  I  must  get 
on  with  this  statement  — " 

"What  is  it?" 

"An  account  for  Olazaba  about  what  I  mean  to  do  in 
regard  to  the  other  half  of  the  mine.  He  says  I  dodge 
him,  evade  the  issue."  Robert's  eyes  gave  a  cold  flash. 
"No  one  ever  before  said  that  of  me,  and  after  these 
Venezuelans  read  this  above  my  signature  they  won't  say 
it  again." 

Elsie's  false  steps  and  bruises  in  the  whirlwind  of  life 
had  made  her  wise.  Robert  saw  her  give  a  keen  almost 
alarmed  look  toward  the  paper  which  he  had  been  rapidly 
covering  with  his  fine  and  forceful  writing. 


The  Next  Corner  273 

"From  what  you  told  me  yesterday,  you  are  not  agree- 
ing to  do  what  they  want." 

"I  am  agreeing  to  speak  of  their  proposition  when  I 
go  to  New  York,  as  one  having  no  opinion  about  it,  good 
or  bad."  He  seized  Elsie  in  a  boyish  clutch.  "Think  of 
it !  —  in  about  two  weeks  more  we'll  be  in  New  York's 
springtime  and  out  of  this  heat.  Only  for  that  I'd  have 
made  you  —  obstinate  little  devil  though  you  are  —  get 
away  to  Macuto  for  the  sea  breeze." 

Elsie  did  not  reply  to  this,  and  he  went  on  dreamily: 
"I've  been  thinking  of  what  you  said  of  our  going  to 
France  into  war  work  of  some  sort.  A  bully  way  to  spend 
some  of  the  money  I've  earned.  You  couldn't  nurse,  of 
course  — " 

"liots  of  other  things  to  be  done.  And  I'd  scrub 
hospital  floors  —  for  France !  Then  I  keep  thinking 
of  my  dear  Julie,"  she  went  on,  a  pang  in  her  voice. 
"I  must  find  her.  It  chills  me  not  to  have  had  one  line 
to  all  the  letters  I've  sent  her.  If  I  could  only  hear 
that  she's  alive. 

"It's  hard  to  get  news  from  the  wilderness  and  mael- 
strom that  France  is  now.  One  has  to  go  —  to  know." 

While  Elsie  was  sincerely  interested  in  this  latest  proj- 
ect her  attention  was  divided.  Her  gaze  wavered  around 
the  papers  on  the  table. 

"Robert,"  she  said  slowly,  "don't  write  anything  for 
these  men.  I  wish  you  wouldn't." 

"But  I'd  rather.  They've  got  to  know  just  what  to 
expect  from  me." 

"Don't  write  it,"  Elsie  repeated,  the  advice  with  a 
shade  of  appeal  in  it  that  puzzled  him.  "Something  might 
be  read  into  it  that  you  don't  quite  mean,  or  there  might 
be  a  few  words  left  in  it  that  you'd  wish  you  hadn't  said. 
From  what  you've  told  me,  I  feel  sure  you  are  dealing 
with  a  desperate  and  determined  lot  of  speculators.  Any 
signed  agreement  of  yours  might  be  turned  and  twisted 
into  some  irritation  for  you  that  you  never  counted  upon. 
Tear  it  up,  dearest?"  she  asked,  bending  toward  the  table, 


274  The  Next  Corner 

while  in  fancy  she  saw  all  that  had  followed  in  her  own 
life  after  the  writing  of  a  regretted  letter. 

Robert  looked  as  amused  as  if  a  white  kitten  with  a 
ribbon  about  its  neck  had  opened  its  coral-pink  mouth  to 
give  him  counsel.  "Then  what  would  you  have  me  do?" 
he  asked. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  Elsie  said  with  soft,  clear  force. 
"Olazaba  comes  here  to  dinner  to-morrow  night,  you 
say  —  " 

"He  didn't  want  to  come  —  tried  hard  to  get  me  to 
go  to  him  in  Puerto  Cabello  where  he's  been  stopping  with 
some  others  of  the  clan.  We  left  it  this  way:  If  he  did 
not  hear  from  me  that  I  would  do  that,  he  was  to  come 
here.  This  is  to  be  our  final  talk,  for  he  sails  almost 
at  once  for  a  Chilean  port  and  new  copper  fields  there." 

"And  he  was  to  leave,  carrying  all  that  writing  signed 
by  you !"  she  cried,  in  a  sort  of  exultant  wrath.  "Instead 

—  why  not  talk  to  this  subtle,  perhaps  tricky  Venezuelan 

—  for  I  know  you  don't  trust  him  —  and  do  it  before  a 
witness?     Me  voild!"     She  pointed  gaily  to  herself  while 
her  face  flushed  to  the  opal-pink  that  lurks  in  the  core 
of  a  white  rose. 

"All  right.  But  I've  never  known  such  a  quietly  dogged, 
tireless,  oily  pleader.  And  he  won't  take  positive  defeat 
well.  I've  often  seen  him  looking  at  me  with  something 
very  like  a  threat  —  as  if,  providing  I  failed  to  meet  his 
backers'  wishes,  he'd  start  some  sort  of  retaliation." 

"That's  the  way  with  money-mad  men,"  Elsie  cried. 
"You  have  it  in  your  power  to  make  a  fortune  pour  into 
their  hands.  If  because  you  keep  to  the  straight  truth 
this  does  not  happen  —  of  course  they'll  hate  you."  She 
bent  across  him  and  lifted  the  papers  on  which  his  foun- 
tain pen  lay.  "Let  me  tear  them  up?"  she  begged. 

"You've  got  me  out  of  the  mood  for  writing  another 
word.  So  —  go  ahead !" 

As  she  obeyed,  flinging  the  fragments  into  the  basket, 
Robert  laughed.  "You'll  have  more  than  you  bargained 


The  Next  Corner  275 

for.  The  clap-trap  of  printing  presses  at  full  speed  is  a 
trifle  to  Juan  Olazaba  when  he  gets  going." 

Elsie  touched  her  lips  to  his  dark  cheek  in  the  lightest 
kiss  and  leaned  her  elbow  on  his  shoulder. 

"I'm  glad  you  let  me  help  you,"  she  whispered.  "It's  a 
lovely  feeling!" 

He  studied  her  whimsically,  his  glance  brilliant, 
caressing. 

"You  bewilder  me,  Elsie,"  he  sighed. 

"That's  better  than  boring  you." 

"You're  new  wine  in  the  old  bottle  of  my  life,  and  you 
go  to  my  head.  I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  uxorious." 

"I've  forgotten  what  that  means,  but  it  has  a  dread- 
ful sound." 

"Uxoriousness  is  love  of  a  wife,"  said  Robert,  his  brows 
up.  "Or,  rather,  too  much  love  of  a  wife." 

"That's  impossible !"  Elsie  was  imperial,  blithe  and  dry. 
"No,  that  couldn't  be." 

After  a  pause  she  asked  with  droll  seriousness:  "Do 
you  love  me  as  well  to-day  as  you  did  yesterday?" 

"Better." 

"But  how  could  you?  You  said  then  you  couldn't  love 
me  more." 

"I  was  mistaken." 

"And  to-morrow  —  better  still?" 

"Without  a  doubt !' 

"And  this  will  never  change?"  she  asked,  sitting  back  a 
little,  her  gaze  amusedly  astounded.  "More  and  more 
love  from  you  all  the  time?" 

"More  and  more,"  he  said  with  drowsy  eyes  and  a 
clipped,  low-noted  laugh,  "until  I  am  for  the  most 
part  one  big,  human  exclamation  of  adoration  for  you, 
with  every  other  feeling  mere  little  futile  dots  and  dashes 
around  it.  So,  if  this  is  my  state  of  mind  to-day 
—  Wednesday  —  you  can  faintly  imagine  its  intensity  by 
Saturday!" 

She  bent  to  touch  his  cheek  briefly  with  hers  as  she 
said :  "You  are  adorable.  Only  —  it  happens  to  be  Thurs- 
day, you  know." 


276  The  Next  Corner 

At  the  words  he  straightened  and  held  her  off  sharply. 
"This  is  Wednesday !" 

"No,  it  is  not,"  she  said,  and  ticked  off  on  her  fingers  the 
various  happenings  of  the  three  days  since  Sunday. 

"Good  Heavens !"  Robert  lifted  her  lightly  from  his 
knee  and  stood  up.  "Then  Olazaba  is  coming  to  dinner 
to-night.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that?" 

She  looked  aghast  after  the  manner  of  a  good  house- 
keeper taken  by  surprise  and  clasped  her  small  hands 
distractedly. 

"Robert !  —  You  said  nothing  about  it  at  all  until 
this  morning,  and  then  only  that  he  was  coming  to  dinner 
to-morrow." 

"I  thought  to-morrow  Thursday,  you  see.  This  is  the 
second  time  in  a  month  that  I've  got  twisted  this  way  and 
lost  a  day.  It's  about  time  I  took  a  rest." 

"Oh,  dear,  what  a  mistake!    What  can  we  do?" 

"Why,  do  with  what  we  have,"  he  said  easily.  "I'll 
make  a  corking  Moselle  cup  that  will  cover  up  all  de- 
ficiencies." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  Elsie  retorted,  her  fine  brows 
quaintly  severe.  "Our  dinner  to-night  was  to  be  of  the 
simplest.  I  take  a  pride  in  my  house.  I'll  get  Gil  started 
on  something  more  —  oh,  I  know !  —  his  wonderful  cheese 
souffle  will  help  —  and  fortunately  there's  lots  of 
caviare  —  " 

"Splendid.  Hurry  it  along,  dear."  Robert  looked  at 
hjs  watch.  "There's  not  much  time.  Olazaba  will  be  here 
in  twenty  minutes.  He'll  be  sure  to  wear  a  dinner  jacket, 
so  I  must  change.  You  needn't.  You're  sweet  as  you 
are." 

"Oh,  indeed?"  She  looked  up  at  him  in  gay  commisera- 
tion of  his  need  of  enlightenment,  as  she  started  off.  "Not 
dress?  Not  put  on  that  silver  tissue  that's  just  come 
home?  —  as  lovely  as  anything  to  be  found  in  Paris? 
Wait!"  and  she  blew  him  a  light  kiss  as  she  ran  toward 
the  kitchen  quarters,  calling:  "Gil!  Domingo!  Venga  V. 
acd!" 


The  Next  Corner  277 

The  time  raced.  Instead  of  twenty,  it  was  scarcely 
fifteen  minutes  later  when  Elsie  heard  Olazaba  arriving 
at  the  front  of  the  house  and  Robert's  voice  from  the 
entrance  hall,  greeting  him. 

Candida  was  fastening  for  her  the  last  snaps  of  the 
ductile  tissue  into  which  she  had  been  rushed  and  in  which 
she  gave  the  effect  of  a  flexibly  bending  blade  throwing 
off  coruscations  of  moonlight,  when  Robert  stopped  to 
thrust  in  his  head  between  the  gallery  doors.  He  had  on 
a  lounging  coat  and  slippers. 

"Olazaba's  come.  I  went  out  only  half  ready  to  meet 
him.  He's  been  hit  a  bit  by  the  sun  and  is  in  there  sitting 
quietly  with  the  shutters  closed.  I  gave  him  some  aro- 
matic ammonia,  and  he'll  be  all  right.  I'll  be  along  in 
five  minutes.  You  go  in  when  you're  ready." 

While  speaking  he  was  obviously  conscious  of  the  cold 
blaze  from  Elsie's  gown  framing  her  curd-white  flesh  and 
glimmering  head,  her  darkly  languid  eyes  making  a  splash 
of  softness  against  all  the  brightness. 

"Jove,"  he  murmured.  "You're  too  —  too  wonderful, 
darling!  Too  wonderful!"  he  sighed  helplessly  and  went 
away. 

"What  did  the  senor  say  about  you,  senora?"  Candida 
asked  with  her  lovely  simplicity,  as  she  rose  from  her 
knees  and  stood  away  from  her  mistress,  her  eyes  ab- 
sorbed, her  delicate  fingers  lightly  interlaced. 

"He  said  I  was  too  wonderful,"  Elsie  answered  in 
Spanish,  her  lip  lifted  in  a  gay  smile. 

"Ah,  how  the  senor  knows  all  things !"  Candida  replied 
with  an  august  gravity.  "The  senor  is  wise  like  God  — 
and  what  he  says  is  always  true." 

Elsie  gave  joyous  assent  to  this,  and  slightly  drooping 
with  laughter,  went  from  Candida's  roundly  solemn  gaze 
into  the  hall.  The  parlor  was  but  a  few  steps  away.  It 
was  a  sedately  stiff  room,  after  the  Latin-American 
manner :  A  dozen  rockers  were  ranged  around  the  walls ; 
in  the  big  central  space  there  was  a  table  with  a  chair  on 
each  side  of  it ;  the  spinet's  white  keyboard  yawned  from 


278  The  Next  Corner 

one  corner.  All  of  this  lay  in  deep  shadow,  as  a  balm 
against  the  lingering  heat  of  the  western  sun,  except  at 
one  spot  beside  the  table,  where  from  slightly  parted 
jalousies  behind  it  thin  rays  crept  in  that  made  a  grid- 
iron-like oblong  of  flickering  gray  upon  the  surrounding 
dusk. 

And  as  Elsie  made  her  radiant  pause  in  the  doorway, 
she  saw  a  man  sitting  on  one  of  the  central  chairs,  his 
head  lowered,  his  arms  folded.  She  had  floated  out  of  the 
gloom,  had  reached  the  table  before  he  seemed  aware  of 
her  entrance  and  rose  slowly.  His  back  was  toward  what 
little  light  there  was.  As  he  stood  up  she  had  only  sense 
of  length,  slenderness,  and  of  a  mixed  odor,  —  a  scent 
sweeter  than  any  ever  used  by  Anglo-Saxon  men  and  the 
pungency  of  Spanish  tobacco. 

"Senor  Olazaba?"  she  said  graciously. 

He  bowed  low. 

"My  husband  tells  me  you  speak  English.  I  am  very 
glad  —  "  Her  extended  arm  fell  at  sight  of  the  fingers 
that  came  to  meet  hers.  A  jaundiced  brown  they  were, 
stained  bistre  at  the  tips  from  nicotine,  thin,  strong,  with 
tendons  like  cords  at  the  knuckles,  the  nail  on  the  smallest 
a  cruel-looking  quill. 

In  all  the  world  there  could  only  be  one  hand  like  that ! 

An  icy  current  of  air  seemed  to  close  around  Elsie;  as 
if,  against  an  iron  bar  that  had  replaced  her  neck,  she 
lifted  her  terrified  face. 

The  man  had  turned  sideways  a  little,  and  one  of  the 
pencil  strokes  of  light  lay  straight  across  a  pair  of 
sunken,  oblique  and  glistening  eyes.  The  fox  eyes  of 
Serafin.  They  were  upon  her,  an  electric  force  in  them 
that  locked  her  own,  held  her  up,  rigid  before  him,  when 
she  felt  she  would  have  fallen. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

IMAGINATION  halted;  grew  stark.  For  an  instant, 
through  blankness  and  darkness,  Elsie  was  only  aware  of 
a  disorganizing  pang.  This  was  protest  from  mortal 
dread  against  the  belief  that  it  was  actually  Serafin  at 
whom  she  looked. 

His  voice  carried  reality  to  her.  Thin  of  sound,  me- 
tallic, rapid,  and  a  shade  too  high  for  a  man,  it  brought 
to  her  inward  sight,  on  a  rising  and  falling  splash,  all  the 
happenings  of  the  tragic  night  where  he  had  moved,  the 
most  sinister  figure. 

"Control  yourself!  Madame  —  do  you  hear  me?  Con- 
trol yourself!" 

As  his  face  with  swiftly  moving  lips  darkened  down 
upon  her,  Elsie  choked,  holding  by  her  fingers,  and  feebly, 
to  the  edge  of  the  table.  Balance  left  her  completely. 
Her  mouth  opened  for  a  scream;  it  ended  abortively  on 
a  breath. 

Joining  the  threat  that  intensified  in  his  eyes,  Serafin's 
hand  fastened  on  her  bare  arm  —  as  it  had  before  —  oh, 
as  it  had  before.  How  she  remembered !  How  exactly  it 
repeated  the  repulsion  felt  then,  gave  her  flesh  the  same 
furred  feeling  as  if  from  a  worm  moving  over  her.  This 
brought  strength  that  made  her  recoil  from  it,  jerk  it  off. 

"Get  hold  of  yourself,  madame."  And  now  his  tone, 
small,  succinct,  expressed  the  most  dire  need  of  her  obedi- 
ence. "We  have  only  a  moment  before  your  husband 
comes  back.  Do  you  hear  me?  He  will  be  with  us  in  a 
moment  —  your  husband !" 

With  sickness  cold  upon  her,  Elsie  struggled  to  heed 
this  warning.  Her  nerves  were  stretched  to  their  hardest. 

"What  is  it?  What?"  she  implored  and  dragged  a 

279 


280  The  Next  Corner 

hand  across  her  wet  forehead.  Growing  a  little  stronger, 
though  the  words  came  weakly  still,  as  if  she  were  at  the 
end  of  an  exhausting  race :  "Why  —  have  you  come 
here?" 

"You'll  know  all  that,  later.  Just  now  get  one  thing 
clearly  into  your  mind,  or  you  will  regret  it !  When  your 
husband  returns,  you  are  not  to  let  him  know  that  you 
have  ever  seen  me  before.  Remember!" 

Strengthening  still  more,  though  her  face  was  as  a 
dead  woman's,  Elsie  fixed  a  steady  gaze  on  him.  "You're 
to  keep  —  pretending  —  to  be  some  one  you're  not?  And 
I'm  to  help  you  do  it?  That's  what  you  mean?" 

"Fow  have  never  seen  me  before,"  Serafin  repeated. 

"No !"  burst  from  her. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'no'?" 

"I  won't  do  this,"  was  whispered  through  her  teeth 
that  shook  a  little,  piteously.  "My  husband  thinks  you're 
a  man  named  Olazaba.  You're  not  —  and  I  won't  say 
that  you  are.  I  won't  —  " 

"That  is  my  name,"  he  broke  in  on  a  crisp  note.  "You 
never  supposed  that  I  had  any  other  than  Serafin  —  did 
you?  Of  course  not!  It's  so  usual  to  forget  that  — 
servants  —  have  family  names.  Is  it  not,  madame?"  and 
the  question  was  insensate  resentment.  "I  am  Juan 
Serafin  Olazaba.  I  was  that  in  Paris.  I  was  that  in 
Spain.  It  is  my  name." 

"Posing  as  a  Venezuelan,"  she  said  feebly. 

"To  your  husband  only.  I  thought  it  wise,  fearing  that 
if  he  mentioned  that  I  came  from  Spain  and  perhaps 
described  me  to  you,  you  might  suspect.  Except  for  him, 
every  one  that  I  know  knows  what  I  am  —  a  Basque !" 
The  passionate  nationalism  of  the  diminished  yet  persist- 
ently unconquered  race  flamed  in  the  words.  "Let  all 
that  rest  for  the  present,"  he  continued  even  more  hur- 
riedly, "there  is  only  one  thing  we  can  decide  at  this 
moment." 

While  she  could  see  he  was  listening,  his  eyes  upon  the 
door  —  not  upon  her  who,  defiant,  wretched,  and  astray 


The  Next  Corner  281 

in  mind,  swayed  before  him  —  he  continued  in  the  un- 
accented recitative  of  the  Spaniard  when  speaking  at 
length  and  in  haste.  It  was  a  series  of  small  hammer 
taps  that  touched  every  needed  spot  of  a  spread  surface, 
and  they  ran  around  the  circle  of  Elsie's  intelligence  with 
assurance  and  emphasis,  making  plain  every  phase  of  the 
situation : 

"Will  you  be  silent  about  having  known  me  before?  I 
am  not  asking  from  your  husband  anything  that  could 
possibly  injure  him.  He  decides  nothing  to-night.  —  I 
did  not  want  to  come  here.  He  has  asked  me  to  do  so 
over  and  over,  and  for  weeks  I  have  been  evading  it.  — 
While  it  is  not  by  chance  that  I  am  here  in  Venezuela,  as 
I  will  later  explain,  I  never  wanted  to  see  you  again.  I 
have  no  desire  to  renew  anything  from  the  past  —  not  the 
slightest  desire  to  disturb  your  life !  It  was  necessary  for 
me  to  accept  Maury's  invitation  to-night  or  antagonize 
him,  lose  what  ground  I  have  gained  with  him  in  a  per- 
fectly straight  business  acquaintance.  Of  this  I  assure 
you.  —  It  is  a  misfortune  that  you  hate  me  for  what  has 
already  occurred.  I  ask  you  to  forget  that.  Treat  me  as 
a  stranger  —  give  me  my  chance  as  a  stranger,  this  one 
night.  Do  what  you  will  afterward  —  to-night  I  ask  you 
to  be  silent.  If  you  tell  your  husband,  I  will  be  shown 
the  door.  What  good  will  that  do  you?  I  am  not  aiming 
to  hurt  him  nor  you.  Consider  what  I  say.  It  will  be 
to  your  advantage!  I  have  something  of  the  greatest 
importance  to  say  to  you,  but  there  is  not  time  now. 
Keep  quiet  to-night.  See  me  to-morrow  morning  —  for 
ten  minutes  —  and  I  will  explain." 

She  heard  him  to  the  end  in  silence.  She  wanted  to  be 
brave,  she  was  sick  of  deceit.  Here  was  her  chance  to  be 
defiant  of  consequences  for  the  sake  of  truth.  If 
straightly  and  simply  she  unmasked  Serafin,  no  matter 
what  resulted,  it  would  be  such  clean  and  fitting 
tribute  to  her  love  for  Robert.  And,  moreover,  what  need 
had  she  of  subterfuge  even  to  save  herself?  Serafin  could 
not  hurt  her.  He  had  no  proof  that  would  convince  her 


282  The  Next  Corner 

husband  of  her  lie.  She  knew  that  Robert  would  not  let 
him  speak  against  her,  —  would  silence  and  dismiss  him. 
And  if  he  managed  to  say  enough  to  plant  the  need  of  her 
explanation,  later,  what  power  would  his  word  have 
against  hers,  —  if  she  denied  his  accusation? 

By  the  time  she  had  reached  this  question,  a  sick  dis- 
may came  with  the  knowledge  that  she  was  again  relying 
on  deceit,  that  an  unburdened  heart  and  conscience  still 
had  no  place  in  her  scheme.  Helplessly,  in  that  distraught 
moment,  she  accepted  this  as  needful,  found  exculpation 
for  herself  as  something  weak  in  the  hands  of  a  too  power- 
ful fate  and  that  had  to  use  any  weapon  for  salvation. 

Besides,  she  so  hated  this  man!  He  was  loathsome  to 
her.  It  was  an  insatiate  repulsion  that  could  not  help 
seizing  any  chance  to  trouble  or  defeat  him. 

"My  mind  is  made  up,"  came  from  her  on  a  hard  sigh. 

She  felt  strong  now.  Her  eyes  were  black  in  her  face 
that  the  moment's  shock  had  left  wan. 

There  was  a  pause.  Serafin  gave  her  a  probing 
glance. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  His  voice  had  thinned  to  a  new 
desperation.  "Quickly,  please !" 

"I'll  not  let  you  pretend  to  be  what  you  are  not  to 
my  husband,  —  no,  not  for  one  moment  after  he  enters 
this  room,"  she  said  steadily. 

In  the  dusk  that  with  little  lingering  was  rushing  toward 
the  night,  the  room  had  grown  rapidly  darker.  Serafin 
went  to  the  window  near  him  and  peremptorily  pulled  the 
shutters  open  to  their  widest,  letting  a  deep  grayness 
sweep  in.  He  came  back  to  face  Elsie. 

"Exactly  —  what  will  you  tell  him?"  he  insisted. 

"He  thinks  you  are  a  Venezuelan  —  a  man  of  impor- 
tance. He  shall  know  from  me  that  I  knew  you  in  Paris 
—  the  Basque  valet  of  the  Marques  de  Burgos  — " 

"And  that  I  knew  you  there,  from  the  first  sight  of  you," 
he  broke  in,  "as  the  mistress  of  the  same  man." 

A  sound  of  protest  on  a  breath  came  from  her,  her 
look  that  of  one  staggered.  She  seemed  at  first  unable 


The  Next  Corner  283 

to  speak.  When  she  did,  her  voice  came  with  unexpected 
strength:  "My  mind  is  made  up.  You  had  better  leave 
before  Senor  Maury  comes.  Nothing  you  can  say  —  not 
this  last  lie  nor  any  other  —  can  keep  me  from  telling 
him  who  you  are." 

"Nothing?"  he  asked. 

His  eyes  narrowed  so  they  fairly  disappeared  in  the 
bony  sockets.  And  this  very  nullity  of  face  became  the 
more  menacing;  made  it  seem  to  Elsie  as  if  his  spirit  had, 
furtively,  gone  out  of  him  to  find  and  bring  back  that 
which  could  not  help  but  crush  her;  made  of  him  some- 
thing less  and  more  terrible  than  a  man,  however  bad  — 
something  unnatural,  monstrously  significant,  that  awoke 
dread  in  her  for  which  there  were  no  words. 

His  eyes  came  back.  Now  he  was  listening  with  in- 
tense suspense  for  Robert's  step.  While  he  was  speaking 
he  kept  watch  on  the  door:  "You  are  not  afraid  of  me, 
then?" 

"No,  I  am  not."  Her  lips  formed  the  words  almost 
without  sound. 

Chill  and  luminous  and  tremulously  fragile,  she  re- 
called to  him  a  rough  yet  luxurious  room  in  the  moun- 
tains, a  dinner  table  with  candlelight  through  white  —  he 
even  saw  the  gold  of  the  dish  of  apricots  —  and  she  there 
exultantly  happy,  with  Don  Arturo,  the  passionate  lover 
and  suavely  haughty  aristocrat,  beside  her;  he  the  ser- 
vant. The  picture  brought  heat. 

"I  will  say,"  Elsie  rushed  on,  more  clearly,  "that  you 
are  attacking  me  falsely  because  I  resented  your  insult 
in  Paris.  —  No  one  but  you  knows  that  I  was  the  only 
guest  at  El  Miradero  that  night  —  or  that  I  was  any- 
thing but  a  guest  in  the  ordinary  way.  I  shall  deny  all 
you  say." 

"Deny?"  His  high  brows  crept  up  eerily  into  a  point  of 
surprise.  "But,  your  letter,  madame?  Your  letter  to 
your  husband?  He  knows.  Without  what  I  should  add 
as  elaboration,  you,  yourself,  wrote  him  all  the  facts." 

With  his  first  question  she  saw  her  mistake.     Incom- 


284  The  Next  Corner 

prehensibly,  she  had  for  a  moment  forgotten  what  had 
been  lodged  in  her  thoughts  every  day  for  close  to  a  year ; 
had  forgotten,  too,  what  she  had  often  clearly  realized  — 
that  if  Serafin  should  cross  her  path  she  must  make  him 
believe  that  the  letter  had  reached  Robert.  It  was  not 
too  late  to  remedy  her  blunder.  No !  He  must  be  made 
to  feel  that  his  information  was  already  discounted.  She 
struggled  to  get  back  her  poise,  spoke  with  an  affecta- 
tion of  relief,  her  throat  dry  and  stiff: 

"Oh,  yes,  oh,  yes  —  I  —  that  —  I'd  forgotten  — " 

Far  off  a  door  closed.  Far  off  she  heard  Robert  speak 
with  the  carrying  sound  that  came  to  voices  in  the  stone- 
enclosed  patio. 

"You'd  better  go  —  that  way  —  there  —  through  the 
front  —  before  it's  too  late,"  she  implored  in  stumbling 
haste. 

Nervous  though  Serafin  must  have  been,  his  outward 
calm  intensified. 

"But  I  must  have  this  clear.  You  forgot  that  your 
husband  already  knew  of  your  affaire  with  the  marquts. 
This  is  what  you  mean?" 

"Yes !" 

"And  that  he  has  forgiven  you?" 

"Yes!    Yes!" 

"This  happened  —  after  he  received  the  letter?" 

"I  told  you  so !"  She  swept  him  with  a  look  of  frantic 
rage. 

"Marvellous,"  said  Serafin  thoughtfully.  The  one 
word,  as  he  spoke  it,  had  a  curious  effect  on  Elsie.  It  was 
as  if,  on  a  wild  run,  she  had  been  brought  up  short,  made 
suddenly  aware  of  a  gulf  before  her.  "Miraculous,"  he 
added  with  a  note  of  laughter  grim  and  sour,  his  eves 
brilliant.  "That  could  not  be,  madame,  unless  the  law 
in  physics  is  wrong  and  an  object  can  occupy  two  places 
at  one  and  the  same  time." 

While  saying  the  last  words,  he  whipped  a  flat  black 
wallet  from  an  inside  coat  pocket.  His  strong  yet  deli- 
cate hand,  so  cruelly  nailed,  drew  from  it  a  glazed  wrap 


The  Next  Corner  285 

ping.  With  a  finical  precision  he  lifted  this  back,  took 
out  what  reposed  within,  and  held  it  up. 

Elsie  saw  the  keenly  remembered  gray-blue  square  of 
paper,  stamped,  sealed.  Her  own  letter,  —  fresh  as  at 
the  moment  of  writing. 

Though  conscious  that  Robert  was  speaking  again,  and 
a  little  nearer,  she  could  only  stare  at  it.  It  was  a  thing 
of  doom ;  and  doom  was  in  her  stricken  face. 

"Look  at  this  quickly,  while  there  is  a  chance,  senora," 
Serafin  said,  and  came  closer  to  her,  turning  it  slowly  in 
his  dark  fingers,  his  voice  once  more  desperate.  "You 
see  your  own  writing  —  the  stamp  —  the  De  Burgos  crest 
on  the  seal?  —  Exactly  as  you  handed  it  to  me !  —  It  was 
not  given  to  Eduardo  to  take  down  the  mountain.  It  did 
not  leave  El  Miradero.  It  never  left  my  wallet.  So  — 
how  could  your  very  estimable  husband  have  read  it, 
madame?" 

In  a  flash  he  replaced  it.  Elsie  stood  inert.  Every- 
thing within  her  seemed  to  have  dissolved  to  a  rising  flood, 
icy  cold. 

Robert's  step  was  near. 

"Will  you  be  silent  —  until  to-morrow?"  she  heard 
Serafin  say. 

Answering  this  with  a  slack  nod,  she  went  wildly  to  the 
branch  of  candles  in  a  corner  and  was  lighting  them 
when  Robert  entered,  her  back  to  him. 

As  she  heard  his  voice  with  its  usual  tone  saying  that 
she  and  his  visitor  had  had  time  to  get  well  acquainted, 
a  second  self  seemed  to  come  to  her ;  a  self  of  wisdom,  ad- 
vising, helping  her.  How  she  managed  a  smooth,  amused 
reply  she  could  not  tell ;  she  had  a  sense  of  wonder  as  she 
heard  herself  say  the  words.  It  was  easier,  then,  to  add 
a  murmur  of  excuse  for  going,  and  while  keeping  her  face 
in  shadow,  start  across  the  spacious  bareness. 

Her  knees  felt  sinking,  so  that  she  had  to  call  on  every 
nerve  and  set  her  teeth  to  control  them.  She  really  made 
a  natural  progress,  but  to  herself  she  seemed  to  crawl  over 
an  interminable  distance.  She  was  so  small;  the  room  so 


286  The  Next  Corner 

big ;  the  door  affrightingly  far  off.  And  the  feeling  made 
her  live  again  through  a  similar  experience,  —  when, 
playing  at  composure,  as  Arturo  had  implored  her,  she 
had  walked  toward  the  curtains  in  the  room  at  El  Mira- 
dero,  with  the  implacable  gaze  of  the  pale  stranger  upon 
her. 

At  last  she  was  outside,  could  let  the  trembling  have 
its  way  with  her  and  send  her,  jolting,  befogged,  against 
the  wall.  Everything  grew  dim.  A  moment  passed  so 
before  she  was  able  to  take  hold  on  her  will.  Yet  she 
could  not  stir,  though  her  eyes  were  now  open,  watching. 

They  were  frantic  like  those  of  some  small  thing  that 
stops  stock-still  only  because  there  is  no  place  to  run, 
every  path  blocked. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

COURAGE  may  follow  directly  on  despair;  a  deep,  still 
recklessness  that  counts  out  consequences.  When  results 
cannot,  from  any  point  of  view,  be  speculated  upon  for 
assistance,  they  lose  force  as  hindrance  or  threat.  After 
the  agony  of  the  first  moments  of  Elsie's  frustration,  in 
which  fear  had  been  a  swollen  flood  pouring  into  every 
niche  of  her  consciousness,  an  ebb  came,  and  while  leaving 
her  hopeless,  it  made  her  brave.  As  she  stood  before  the 
mirror  in  her  room  and  pressed  color  back  into  her  blood- 
less face,  the  wiidness  went  out  of  it. 

She  knew  that  she  could  make  no  bargain  with  Serafin. 
Even  the  passing  thought  of  such  a  possibility  brought 
self-contempt.  Her  chance  of  escape  was  gone.  Her  de- 
feat was  certain.  Yet  two  purposes  pulled  indomitably  at 
her  sad  heart:  For  as  long  as  might  be  to  prevent  the 
letter  from  reaching  Robert,  —  this  as  one  would  keep 
creeping  from  the  sweep  of  an  advancing  fire  though 
knowing  death,  ultimately,  to  be  sure ;  and  to  prevent  any 
further  talk  between  him  and  Serafin  by  which  the  Basque's 
adroitness  might  gain  some  helpful  concession. 

During  the  dinner  she  was  a  surprise  to  the  flickering, 
slanted  eyes  that  watched  her.  Serafin  read  her  tense 
stillness  as  promise  of  her  immediate  silence  without  giving 
him  security.  He  was  sharply  intuitive,  and  he  felt  her 
peace  a  waiting  one.  His  hopes  of  money,  the  only  thing 
he  loved  in  life  and  had  most  dire  need  of  now,  he  could 
feel  tottering  on  the  edge  of  this  woman's  deep-laid 
hatred  of  him  and  one  accompanying  danger,  —  whether 
this  would  make  her  more  desperate  than  afraid. 

The  scene  was  lovely.  The  table,  placed  on  the  gallery 
that  jutted  from  the  broad  part  of  the  house,  stood  in 

287 


288  The  Next  Corner 

the  center  of  a  grayish-mauve  netting;  stretched  over 
a  roof  of  bamboo  sticks,  this  enclosed  the  entire  space  and 
against  it,  from  without,  mosquitoes  hummed  venomously 
and  large  spotted  moths  catapulted  in  vain.  A  golden 
haze  from  lamps  under  straw-colored  shades  encircled  the 
chairs,  in  and  out  of  which  Domingo  and  another  serving 
man,  all  snowy  white  save  their  brown  faces  and  oiled 
black  hair,  moved  soft-footed  as  ghosts.  The  darkness 
and  solitude  of  the  night  were  suggested  with  lush  soft- 
ness through  the  veil  as  was  the  spark-blue  glory  of  big 
stars  and  the  glinting  of  a  sliver  of  moon  that  seemed  a 
lantern  hung  in  a  distant  cedar.  The  fountain's  fall 
stole  in,  desultory,  whimpering. 

Serafin  talked  almost  incessantly  of  war,  politics,  busi- 
ness, dreading  a  pause  that  might  lead  to  the  danger  he 
was  combating,  and  ate  nervously ;  Robert,  with  a 
pleasant  hunger,  as  he  listened;  Elsie,  while  keeping  a 
fork  moving,  tasted  little,  though  she  constantly  drank 
both  wine  and  water  to  soothe  the  spasm  that,  like  a  spring 
broken  loose,  would  at  odd  moments  close  up  her  throat. 

And  as  for  the  most  part  she  sat  looking  down,  though 
managing  a  slack  nod  at  times  to  Serafin's :  "You  agree 
with  me,  senora?"a.  confounding  realization  came  to  her  as 
it  had  before,  of  the  inviolable  privacy  of  thought :  There 
was  no  outward  sign  of  Serafin's  suspense  that  must  be 
churning  about  her,  nothing  of  Robert's  doubts  of  his 
guest  —  only  his  desire  to  know  him  better  —  nothing  of 
the  many  things  that,  missing  her  surroundings  during 
fitful  seconds,  she  saw;  things  not  of  this  moment,  or 
night,  or  indeed  of  this  land  at  all ;  instead,  all  the  events 
that  had  followed  her  luckless  entrance  of  the  mule  coach 
that  had  taken  her  up  the  Spanish  mountain  with  Serafin, 
—  the  deus  ex  machina  who  had  planned  disaster  for  her 
and  who  was  beside  her  now,  seemingly  her  welcome  guest. 
Yes,  the  phantom-filled  hinterland  of  thought  could  be  an 
awesome  mystery.  Without  visible  life,  how  authorita- 
tively alive  it  was !  —  the  voices  from  it  a  multitude's,  yet 
only  heard  clandestinely  by  each ;  immutably  separate. 


The  Next  Corner  289 

"Is  it  not  so,  madame?"  Serafin's  voice  on  a  suave  note 
broke  again  on  Elsie's  absorption. 

"You  say  'madame'  sometimes,  instead  of  'senora'," 
Robert  remarked  casually  before  she  felt  the  need  of 
answering.  "You  say  it  as  a  Frenchman  would." 

"I  have  lived  much  in  France,"  he  nodded. 

Robert  looked  at  him  in  candid  astonishment.  "I  had 
no  idea  of  that.  I'd  supposed  you  such  a  bred-in-the-bone 
product  of  this  Latin-America  that  it  consumed  all  your 
energy,  kept  you  rooted,  except  for  visits  to  the  States. 
Like  so  many  South  Americans,  have  you  a  certain  pride 
in  feeling  that  you  are,  if  anything,  an  improvement '  on 
your  ancestry  —  on  Spain?" 

The  crafty  eyes  met  Elsie's  dark,  judging  gaze  and  in 
the  swiftest  way  evaded  it.  A  shade  of  hesitation  was 
visible  before  he  decided  that  for  him  in  her  presence  to 
be  as  honest  as  was  possible,  would  be  the  best  policy. 

"My  ancestry  in  Spain  is  not  remote;  in  fact  it  is 
here,  in  my  very  own  self.  I  am  a  Basque  by  birth,"  he 
said  clearly,  his  chin  irresistibly  lifting  at  the  words. 

Robert's  interest  intensified.  "Ah !  —  now  I  understand 
the  difference  between  you  and  Rodriguez  and  Monsaldo 
that  often  confused  me.  I  detected  it  at  times  in  your 
Spanish,  badly  as  I  speak  the  language.  But  I  supposed 
you  Venezuelan.  I  thought  you  gave  me  to  understand 
that.  No?  —  Odd  that  you  did  not  tell  me  this  interest- 
ing fact  about  yourself  before,  Olazaba,  in  our  many 
talks." 

Serafin  gave  a  dry  smile  and  a  shoulder  twist,  his  hand 
spread  fan-wise  and  moving  like  a  dark  wing,  first  toward 
himself  and  then  toward  Robert,  —  all  of  this  a  wordless 
exclamation  at  his  own  incomprehension  of  himself. 

"I  touch  very  little  on  my  personality,  you  see.  I  don't 
know  why  —  except  —  well,  that  we  Basques  are  rather 
taciturn.  We  can  talk  as  volubly  as  the  Spanish,  to 
whom  in  one  way  we  belong  and  in  another  way  feel 
separate  from,  but  we  do  not  open  our  hearts  about 
our  intimacies  in  their  childish  way,  once  they  are  familiar 


290  The  Next  Corner 

with  you.  As  the  rugged,  silent  Bretons  are  different 
from  the  rest  of  mercurial  France,  —  so  we  are  different 
from  Spain." 

The  moment  for  which  Serafin  waited  came  when  at 
the  close  of  the  dinner  he  told  Robert  that  he  was  an 
enthusiastic  lover  of  bridge. 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  Robert  said.  "I'll  send 
Domingo  down  the  road  to  see  if  the  Morenos  will  come 
in  for  a  rubber  —  no,  as  they  are  rather  ceremonious 
and  a  bit  touchy,  I'll  run  the  car  down  and  fetch  them 
myself." 

Keeping  to  her  resolve,  Elsie  had  not  left  the  men  alone 
to  talk  over  cigars.  With  her  own  cigarette  she  had  with- 
drawn to  a  long  chair,  a  little  way  from  the  table.  While 
Serafin,  smoking,  strolled  into  the  patio,  toward  the  foun- 
tain, Robert  stopped  beside  her  here,  bent  over  her. 

"You've  been  very  silent  to-night,  darling,"  he  whis- 
pered; "and  you  seem  —  sad.  Aren't  you  well?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  murmured,  her  eyes  faltering,  all  of  her 
sick  with  a  sense  of  doom,  of  herself  rushing  to  some 
finality  that  was  confused,  only  the  pain  of  it  clear. 

"You  don't  like  my  friend,"  Robert  whispered  with  one 
of  his  scant,  droll  smiles. 

"Don't  call  him  that !" 

"You  like  him  less  than  you  thought  you  would?" 

"Far  less !  He's  —  horrible,"  she  said  in  a  fierce 
whisper  of  pain. 

"You're  an  unjust  child.  I  found  him  attractive  to- 
night. I  think  the  man's  had  a  hard  and  interesting  fight 
with  life.  And  then  —  he's  a  Basque !  I  was  amazed.  I've 
read  a  lot  about  that  little-known  race  —  poor,  but  in 
their  own  estimation  noble,  and  arrogant  as  the  devil. 
Now  I'm  sure  it's  this  queer,  Basque  streak  in  Olazaba  — 
secretive,  reticent  —  that  has  always  kept  me  miles  from 
understanding  him.  The  man  might  do  —  anything !  He 
might  surprise  with  the  most  staggering  extremes,  either 
good  or  bad.  That's  my  feeling,  somehow.  Draw  him 
out  a  bit  while  I'm  away.  I'll  be  back  in  ten  minutes." 


The  Next  Corner  291 

As  he  said  the  last  words  he  put  his  hand  on  hers. 
Elsie  lifted  it  and  with  a  look  of  dumb  love,  kissed  it.  She 
wanted  to  say:  "Don't  bring  the  people  back.  Keep 
strangers  away  to-night."  But  she  knew  if  she  did  he 
would  not  leave  her,  and  there  would  be  no  chance  for 
conclusive  words  with  Serafin. 

This  thought,  as  she  watched  Robert  hurry  away  and 
immediately  saw  Serafin  coming  back  to  her  through  the 
crossed  shadows  of  the  patio,  made  her  aware  that  deeply 
within  her  the  hope  she  had  thought  slain  had  lifted  its 
head  for  a  death  struggle,  and  that  it  had  been  revived 
by  Robert's  words  about  the  mystery  of  the  Basque 
people :  "The  man  might  do  —  anything.  He  might  sur- 
prise with  the  most  staggering  extremes,  either  good  or 
bad." 

Cruel  and  unspeakably  petty  as  Serafin  had  proved  to 
her  in  the  past,  she  had  never  fathomed  him  and  could  not 
now,  —  only  sure  that  he  was  filled  to  the  lips  with  some 
curious,  twisted  sort  of  pride  belonging  to  his  race.  With 
this  thought  went  memory  of  the  belief,  often  heard,  in 
the  persistence  of  some  idealism  even  in  the  most  seem- 
ingly irreclaimable  criminals.  Might  there  not  be,  then, 
woven  with  baseness  and  inexplicability,  an  unconform- 
able  bit  of  honor  lurking  in  this  enemy,  something  that  in 
spite  of  her  refusal  of  his  appeal  might  induce  him  to 
withhold  his  retaliation? 

For  as  the  decisive  moment  neared,  disclosure  a  poised 
sword  above  her,  Elsie  was  filled  with  insurgent  prayer  — 
raw  agony  in  it  not  known  before  —  for  the  destruction 
of  the  letter  without  Robert  having  knowledge  of  it. 
Never  had  it  seemed  so  dreadful ;  never  so  ruthlessly  cruel. 
That  uncompromising  relinquishment  of  him  and  the  pas- 
sionate words  that  declared  her  love  for  Arturo  were  with 
her,  unwinding  before  her  memory  like  the  distortions  of 
some  grotesque  dream. 

It  would  be  one  thing  to  tell  him  the  truth  —  all  the 
truth  —  of  her  folly's  transient  life  during  a  few  hours  of 
the  June  night  that  had  ended  in  a  crash  from  the  havoc 


292  The  Next  Corner 

of  which  she  had  crawled  to  find  she  could  hold  on  to  the 
thread  of  his  belief  and  so  manage  to  live  again.  An- 
other and  a  hideous  thing  to  have  his  eyes  rest  on  the 
actual  words  written  then,  their  hot  livingness  changing 
her  into  the  woman  who  had  set  them  down,  —  though 
she  knew  how  briefly  that  woman  had  lived,  how  thor- 
oughly she  had  been  the  creation  of  self-delusion,  what 
regret  went  side  by  side  with  memory  of  her. 

Serafin,  in  the  swift,  muted  way,  so  remembered,  came 
up  the  gallery  steps  and  while  he  drew  back  the  panel  of 
stiffened  netting  that  gave  entrance  as  a  door,  she  was 
holding  to  the  hope  that  in  the  chemistry  of  this  strange 
man  some  drop  of  unalloyed  justice  would  make  her  suf- 
fering at  his  hands  not  the  heaviest. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  light  of  enterprise  was  frankly  in  Serafin's  eyes. 
Now  that  he  was  alone  with  Elsie,  her  dread  showed  so 
plainly  in  her  watch  of  him,  in  the  appealing  yet  frozen 
look  across  the  space  between  them,  he  felt  a  foretaste  of 
accomplishment.  Her  spoken  ratification  —  one  word  — 
was  the  only  thing  needed  to  turn  this  to  a  settled  content. 

Having  earlier  seen  her  panic  at  sight  of  the  letter  that 
like  a  relentless  footstep,  following,  had  at  last  over- 
taken her;  and  having  during  the  night  studied  the 
lovely  peace  and  richness  of  her  life,  grasped  fully  that 
her  love  for  her  husband  was  as  deep  as  it  was  tender,  he 
could  not  believe  that  she  would  ultimately  refuse  to  meet 
his  terms. 

He  said  this  in  effect  in  his  first  guarded  words  when, 
after  a  look  about  to  see  that  the  servants  were  not  within 
hearing,  he  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette:  "You  are  prepared 
to  be  sensible  I  am  sure,  madame.  You  will  not  refuse 
the  little  I  ask  in  order  to  gain  for  yourself  —  so  very 
much." 

When  he  was  about  to  seat  himself  the  first  discord  in 
his  scale  of  values  was  struck.  Elsie  rose  sharply  from 
the  long  chair,  and  coming  to  the  table,  stood  there  with 
that  haunted,  wavering  gaze,  yet  straight,  her  head  well 
up.  Words  were  not  necessary  for  him  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  her  action.  He  was  intelligent  and  sensitive 
and  knew  that  she  was  repudiating  the  intimacy  implied 
in  their  association  as  hostess  and  guest  that  night.  She 
was  not  to  talk  to  him  as  Olazaba ;  he  was  to  her  the 
Serafin  she  had  known,  and  as  such  she  would  not  tolerate 
him  seated  familiarly  in  her  presence.  The  only  way  to 
prevent  it  was  for  herself  to  remain  standing. 

293 


294  The  Next  Corner 

This  opposition  sent  savage  annoyance  through  him. 
He  was  to  have  a  hard  struggle  after  all,  and  there  was 
little  time  in  which  to  manage  her.  Besides  he  was  tired, 
irritated  about  many  things,  while  about  one  —  the  im- 
mediate need  of  money  to  stave  off  ruin  —  he  was  ravaged 
at  times  by  a  sadness  that  had  the  tooth  of  insanity. 

"Let  us  sit  down  while  we  talk,"  he  said,  an  angry 
thrust  in  the  clipped  tone.  "That  will  seem  more  —  usual 
—  if  we  are  interrupted." 

She  remained  as  she  was. 

"To  rush  on  without  giving  me  a  hearing,"  Serafin 
insisted,  "is  a  senseless  thing.  Let  me  explain  how  the 
position  we  find  ourselves  in  has  come  about  — " 

"What  does  that  matter?"  broke  from  her  on  a  frantic 
note.  "It  matters  that  it  has  happened  —  that's  all !  I 
am  willing,"  her  faint,  excited  words  hurried  on,  "to  say 
nothing  to  my  husband  until  you've  gone.  As  soon  as 
you're  out  of  the  house  I'll  tell  him  that  I  knew  you,  and 
where,  and  how.  But  although  I  do  this  —  and  I  shall 
as  surely  as  I  stand  here !  —  are  you  fair  enough  to  give 
me  that  letter  without  any  conditions  attached  to  it?" 

"But  why?"  Serafin  demanded  crisply,  with  a  cool 
stare. 

"Because  it's  mine!  You  stole  it,"  came  chokingly, 
"just,  as  much  as  if  you  were  to  put  those  spoons  in  your 
pocket.  Are  you  clean  enough  —  man  enough  —  to  hand 
it  over  to  me?" 

His  look  changed  to  sly,  feline  amusement.  "You  know 
that  you  have  no  more  right  to  the  letter  than  I  have. 
Once  you  gave  it  to  be  posted  it  passed  out  of  your  pos- 
session. It  became  your  husband's.  In  your  heart  you 
see  how  fair  I  really  am,  since  it  is  to  him  I  mean  to  de- 
liver it  —  that  is,  unless  you  give  me  what  I  want  — 
must  have!  —  to  make  me  keep  it  in  my  pocket  to-night 
and,  later  on,  hand  it  over  to  you." 

His  eyes,  constantly  like  banked  fires  that  could 
send  out  unexpected  gleams,  came  to  a  steady  blaze 
in  the  deep  sockets.  Curiously  with  this  his  manner 


The  Next  Corner  295 

quieted.  Dignified,  vehement  sentences  came  from  his 
closely  folded  lips : 

"Madame,  why  should  we  clash  this  way?  I  want  to 
hold  you  back  from  rashness.  All  can  be  circumspectly 
arranged.  You  misinterpret  how  I  came  to  keep  the 
letter.  Let  me  make  that  clear  to  you  and  you  will  surely 
see  the  whole  matter  differently." 

He  said  this  as  an  elder  brother  might.  Elsie  knew  how 
quickly  that  gravity  could  change  to  brutality.  Every 
separate  phase  of  the  night  that  had  been  her  Gethsemane 
rose  before  her  with  sickening  distinctness.  The  memory 
brought  one  of  those  gusts  of  killing  hate  that  can  come 
at  extreme  moments  to  the  gentlest  heart.  To  see  him 
was  unbearable.  She  looked  away. 

"I've  told  you  — "  was  all  she  could  say. 

While  it  was  plain  to  her  that  she  had  spoken  the  words, 
they  seemed  to  travel  to  her  from  some  other,  over  space 
and  through  a  thickness.  With  this  queerness  a  draining, 
deathly  feeling  came  as  if  the  material  part  of  her  were 
melting,  as  if  she  had  become  a  sad  shape  of  mist  that 
had  to  drop  to  a  chair  beside  the  table  and  feel  its  sup- 
port under  her  elusive  arms.  She  kept  her  face  turned 
from  Serafin.  Her  heaving  gaze  held  for  help  to  the 
picture  of  the  night  beyond  the  gauze,  though  this  was 
as  unreal  as  herself ;  the  dim  mountains,  like  wraiths  awe- 
somely watching  the  slanted  rising  moon,  were  attached 
to  a  dream  wheel  on  which  the  tilted  world  sank  and  rose. 

"We  have  only  a  few  moments,"  reached  her  from  Sera- 
fin  on  a  rushing  tone,  though  guardedly  hushed. 
"Please  try  to  take  in  what  I  say !  —  You  think  I  held 
your  letter  back  from  the  first  to  cause  you  trouble,  and 
that  is  why  you  will  not  be  reasonable  now.  —  This  is  not 
so!  I  did  it  to  save  the  marques  from  what  I  considered 
silly  madness  on  your  part.  I  felt  sure  from  what  I  knew 
of  it  that  it  was  one  which  later  might  be  of  great  dis- 
advantage to  him.  —  You  thought  the  affaire  with  him  a 
most  serious  thing  —  one  to  endure  indefinitely.  I  knew 
this  to  be  your  folly.  And  I  knew  the  marques  would 


296  The  Next  Corner 

bitterly  repent  of  having  in  a  moment  of  weakness  for 
you  allowed  you  to  send  such  a  letter  to  your  husband  — 
one  to  be  proof  for  a  divorce  where  he  would  be  named  as 
the  cause  —  you  see?  The  devotion  of  my  whole  life  had 
been  his.  And  it  was  for  his  sake  I  took  it,  madame; 
not  to  have  a  hold  upon  you  that  I  might  at  some  time 
turn  to  my  advantage.  This  is  the  truth!" 

Elsie  turned ;  she  gave  him  a  long,  still  look.  El  Mira- 
dero  was  so  resurrected  by  his  words  she  almost  seemed 
there,  instead  of  in  her  home  with  a  long  year  of  suspense 
and  Arturo's  grave  between. 

"It  is  not  the  truth,"  she  said  slowly  with  the  unac- 
cented smoothness  of  coldest  contempt. 

His  face  grew  fiercely  dark;  one  of  his  fists  doubled. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"If  you  kept  my  letter  for  the  reason  you  give,  you'd 
have  torn  it  up.  Or  you'd  have  given  it  to  me  —  later." 
A  look  of  the  most  desolate  wistfulness  deepened  with  her 
words.  "You  could  have,  you  know  —  so  easily !  In 
the  commonest  kindness  you  could  have  done  this 
soon  after  —  when  Arturo  was  dead.  No,"  came  som- 
berly, wildly,  "not  a  trace  of  compunction  from  you! 
You  kept  it." 

"Ah,  now  you  have  touched  on  other  moods,  other 
points  of  view  — " 

Domingo  appeared  here  to  remove  the  linen  and  what 
was  left  of  the  silver,  clearing  the  table  for  the  cards. 
They  had  to  pause,  appear  tranquil  as  if  he  had  inter- 
rupted only  the  usual  desultory  after-dinner  talk.  When 
he  had  left  them,  Serafin  gave  a  startled  look  at  his  watch. 
More  than  ten  minutes  had  gone.  His  eyes  met  Elsie's 
and  held  them,  an  agony  of  eagerness  in  his. 

"Scarcely  any  time  is  left,  madame.  Listen  —  please ! 
Recall  that  night  at  El  Miradero.  I  kept  the  letter, 
meaning  later  on  to  earn  the  marquis's  gratitude  —  it 
was  to  be  an  evidence  of  my  fidelity.  That  was  my  first 
intention.  Fate  put  it  out  of  my  power.  —  Recall  the 
cruel  shock  his  murder  was  to  me!  —  Very  well.  This 


The  Next  Corner  297 

grief  —  because  where  I  love  I  am  a  violent  man  —  be- 
came suddenly  a  fearful  rage  against  you  who,  already, 
I  had  little  cause  to  like.  I  believed  you  to  blame  for  Don 
Arturo's  death.  I  was  sure  he  would  have  kept  away  from 
the  mountains  that  year  had  his  unhappiness  about  you 
not  made  him  reckless,  blind  to  danger.  Thinking  you 
had  gone  back  to  America  he  went  away  to  this  solitude 
—  to  brood  over  his  failure  with  you.  I  felt  that  you 
had  put  the  weapon  into  the  hand  of  the  Fate  waiting  up 
there  for  him.  —  It  was  this  that  first  made  me  see  the 
letter  to  your  husband  as  something  by  which  I  might 
annoy  you  —  not  seriously  —  keep  you  perplexed  —  you 
understand?  And  the  more  so  because  your  manner  to 
me  then,  as  always,  made  my  blood  boil.  —  It  was  not 
until  weeks  later  that  this  idea  took  on  a  serious  side, 
when  I  recalled  clearly  one  very  important  thing — " 

He  stopped.  An  on-coming  motor  was  pouring  its 
resonant  buzz  over  the  roofs  from  the  street.  He  saw 
Elsie's  fingers  fasten  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  apprehen- 
sion sharpen  in  her  already  rigid  body  and  face.  When 
he  went  near  the  house  door,  his  head  up,  he  had 
the  stillness  of  an  animal  listening  through  every 
sense,  —  the  fox  he  so  resembled,  when  the  hunt  for 
him  is  on. 

As  the  sound  remained  continous,  faded,  then  died, 
Elsie's  head  sank  in  relief,  though  her  fingers,  trembling, 
remained  where  they  had  clung.  She  knew  that  Serafin 
had  come  back,  was  leaning  over  her,  his  palms  spread  on 
the  table.  She  winced  from  his  nearness  —  the  rush  of 
his  breath,  his  loathsome  sweetness  made  of  perfume  and 
strong  tobacco,  the  violent  gaze  that  she  could  feel  on  her 
lowered  face  matching  the  passionate,  clearly  separated 
words  that  followed: 

"I  told  you  as  soon  as  I  saw  you  that  it  was  not  a  coin- 
cidence that  brought  me  to  Venezuela,  madame.  It  was 
not !  —  When  I  was  in  America,  years  ago,  I  lived  here. 
I  had  shares  in  the  old  Logrono  mine  that  failed.  There- 
fore —  after  the  marques  was  dead,  and  you  were  gone, 


298  The  Next  Corner 

I  saw  you  suddenly  as  a  possible  chance  in  my  future  — 
the  letter  as  an  asset  in  my  speculation.  And  the  reason 
is  this:  that  just  a  little  while  before  leaving  for  the 
mountains  to  join  Don  Arturo,  I  had  read  in  the  Paris 
Herald  that  your  husband,  representing  an  American 
company,  was  to  go  in  the  autumn  to  Venezuela  to  report 
on  the  advisability  of  re-opening  the  old  mine,  or  part  of 
it,  in  which  my  money  had  been  sunk.  As  I  came  to  think 
this  over  carefully  I  felt  sure  that  you  and  he  would 
eventually  meet  and  —  as  he  had  not  had  the  letter  — 
almost  without  doubt  resume  your  life  together.  There 
was  nothing  holding  me  in  Europe  any  more,  nothing  to 
keep  me  from  coming  back  to  Venezuela  and  to  the  others 
who  were  in  the  old  deal  with  me.  Once  there  I  felt  I 
might  be  able  to  turn  this  American  interest  to  our  gain. 
'And  suppose,'  I  thought,  'I  might  get  the  friendship  of 
the  wife  of  the  American  engineer  as  a  help  —  if  I  need 
her  help?'  So  I  reasoned.  And  at  last  what  has  happened 
came  about.  We  had  to  meet."  Sorrow,  a  dark  wave, 
went  through  Elsie  with  his  next  words:  "I  had  little 
hope,  however,  as  I  came  to  this  house  to-night.  If 
already  you  had  told  your  husband  about  the  letter,  it 
would  not  have  been  of  the  slightest  advantage  to  me. 
You  see?" 

Oh,  yes,  she  saw.  She  answered  him  with  a  look, 
morbidly  acute,  and  with  a  sense  of  inner  collapse.  The 
difference  to-night,  had  she  been  truthful  with  Robert 
that  day  in  the  dingy  hotel  room  in  New  York ! 

"Well,  madame?  I  have  told  you  the  facts.  What  is 
your  answer?"  He  stood  away  and  felt  desperation  as 
he  looked  at  her.  Her  earlier  fright  had  wholly  disap- 
peared. After  that  one,  piercing  look,  she  seemed  stone 
again,  staring  eternally  into  space.  Sad  through  and 
through;  hopeless;  past  fear.  "You  know  by  my  un- 
willingness to  come  here  that  I  tried  to  succeed  with- 
out seeing  you  or  using  the  letter  for  persuasion.  Indeed, 
I  did  not  want  to  use  it.  Time  had  softened  me.  And  — 
you  may  not  believe  it !  —  I  meant  when  all  was  well  with 


The  Next  Corner  299 

me,  and  you  had  left  here,  to  send  it  to  you  with  a  line  of 
explanation,  and  so  relieve  your  mind  of  it  forever." 

At  these  last  words,  the  hope  that,  even  yet,  he  might 
allow  her  to  escape,  came  wanly  back  to  Elsie.  The 
authority  of  need  in  her  eyes,  she  lifted  them  to  him. 

"Then  give  it  to  me  now!  Not  as  something  for  some- 
thing—  just  because  you  can  be  generous.  You've  said 
that  folly  made  me  write  it.  I've  known  for  months  how 
great  that  folly  was  —  why  Arturo  was  killed.  I  found 
out  about  Ascuncion  and  her  father."  His  surprise  at 
this  statement  while  sharp  was  brief,  dismissed  as  unim- 
portant against  the  pressure  of  the  moment.  "So  keep 
me  from  suffering  for  my  mistakes  —  more  —  than  I 
can  bear  —  " 

"You  but  have  to  promise  what  I  ask!"  he  cried,  mad 
exasperation  in  the  tone  while  his  voluble  hands  went 
wide  and  stiff  in  finality.  "Do  that !" 

"Never."  This  was  dull  and  slow.  Her  eyes  still 
besought  him.  "In  spite  of  this  —  give  me  my  letter." 

Serafin's  long  nose  lengthened  in  ironic  consideration 
of  her.  "You  must  see  that  nothing  could  so  please  my 
pride  as  putting  }'ou  under  this  obligation  to  me.  Alas, 
I  cannot  so  indulge  myself  —  you  will  have  to  suffer  be- 
cause of  your  importance.  We  have  a  proverb  in  Spain: 
"A  quien  se  hace  de  miel  las  moscas  se  lo  comen."  That 
is ;  "Smear  yourself  with  honey  and  you  will  be  devoured 
by  flies."  You  see?  You  are  smeared  with  the  honey 
that  means  prosperity  for  me  —  I  am  a  very  hungry  and 
determined  fly.  There  you  have  my  unchangeable 
answer." 

The  words  infuriated  her.  A  flash  of  the  wildness  in 
her  leaped  up.  "Let  me  tell  you  that  you  are  overesti- 
mating your  chances  with  my  husband!  Even  if  I  said 
nothing  of  your  real  history,  he  would  not  take  a  step 
to  help  your  schemes.  Not  one !  From  his  own  judg- 
ment he  is  not  inclined  to  support  you  by  so  much  as  a 
finger !" 

"Ah,  but  you  are  wrong,"  Serafin  declared  suavely. 


300  The  Next  Corner 

"When  you  left  us  alone  before  dinner,  Senor  Maury,  in 
answer  to  my  request,  said  he  saw  no  harm  in  my  going 
with  you  both  to  New  York.  He  will  say  nothing  —  but 
is  willing  to  present  me  to  the  men  with  whom  he  is 
associated  and  give  me  a  chance  to  outline  my  claims  to 
them,  myself." 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

This  brought  Elsie  to  her  feet.  Red  spots  had  started 
out  on  her  cheeks.  Her  mouth  quivered  like  a  child's 
in  trouble. 

"You  managed  that  much,"  she  said  on  a  breath.  "In- 
stead of  going  on  to  Chile  — " 

"I  shall  never  go  to  Chile,"  he  broke  in  with  defiance 
and  misery.  "The  only  thing  —  the  thing  that  has  to  be 
—  is  New  York!  New  York,  with  influence  to  help  me, 
is  —  life."  His  force  suddenly  collapsed.  He  trembled. 
His  hands  made  futile,  imploring  dashes  toward  her. 
"You  did  not  understand  this  —  that  I  am  facing  ruin  — 
or  you  would  not  deliberately  set  out  to  destroy  me.  No, 
you  would  not  do  that." 

"Why  not?"  came  with  the  stifled  stillness  that  so  often 
is  the  cup  for  a  storm. 

"Because  I  have  never  injured  you  —  as  yet." 

"Never  injured  me?"    He  felt  the  dark  look  impale  him. 

"What  happened  to  distress  you  came  from  destiny  — 
not  my  doing  —  not  my  fault  — " 

"All  your  fault !"  Her  voice,  controlled  with  difficulty, 
had  the  thickness  of  a  sob.  "Didn't  you  persuade  me  to 
go  to  El  Miradero  with  you,  knowing  what  I  did  not 
know  —  that  I  could  not  come  down  the  mountain  till  the 
next  morning  —  that  unless  Mrs.  Vrain  came,  I  would 
be  alone  there  —  all  night  —  with  Don  Arturo  ?  That 
was  the  beginning.  —  You  saw  my  agony  at  his  death.  — 
And  at  once  didn't  you  use  me  vilely?  —  Put  me  out  when 
his  people  were  coming  —  as  if  I  were  —  oh,  what  you 
called  me  afterward  —  and  not  fit  to  breathe  the  same 
air  with  them !  Didn't  you  make  me  feel  vile  —  lost  — 
when  —  you  kissed  me  —  You!"  she  said  on  a  long 

301 


302  The  Next  Corner 

shudder.  "Do  you  think  I  have,  or  ever  can,  forget  that? 
—  Or  what  you  said  to  me  at  the  last  —  after  you  had 
flung  me  out  at  daybreak  —  and  made  me  go  down  that 
strange  mountain  —  alone  —  distracted  —  not  fit  to  take 
care  of  myself?" 

Wild  tears  came.  She  could  not  keep  them  back.  Her 
face  lost  its  lines,  went  into  a  piteous  muddle  of  pain. 
Holding  to  the  chair's  back  she  shook  as  if  a  storm  had 
entered  her.  Serafin  had  grown  very  still.  As  Elsie  by 
a  violent  effort  steadied  herself,  her  eyes,  though  wet, 
saw  clearly  again,  and  watched  in  his  tobacco-brown 
throat,  left  long  and  bare  above  a  low  collar,  two  tendons 
jerk  like  a  pulley.  While  he  was  listening  with  every 
nerve,  his  eyes  were  fixed  as  if  on  some  one,  or  something, 
beyond  her,  —  far  beyond. 

"You  want  my  promise  to  keep  your  real  history  from 
my  husband  so  that  through  him  you'll  make  money. 
That  you'll  not  get."  Her  breath  was  heavily  uneven, 
her  eyes  jet-black  in  her  now  drained  face.  "And  yet,  if 
you  had  a  drop  of  humanity  in  you,  you'd  give  me  the 
letter.  I'll  tell  my  husband  the  whole  story  —  all  that  I 
should  have  told  him  before.  But  that  letter  I  don't 
want  him  to  read!  —  I'll  die !  —  for  something  in  my 
heart  will  die  —  if  he  ever  reads  —  those  words!  Oh,  if 
you  were  the  worst  sort  of  an  American,  you'd  hand  it 
over.  No  man  of  my  race,  no  matter  how  low  he  might 
be  and  though  he  had  done  all  you've  already  done  to  me, 
would  refuse  it !  —  You've  talked  of  your  pride.  —  You 
have  no  pride !  None  —  if  you  do  this.  No  decency  — 
if  you  do  it.  If  you  finish  with  me  as  you  say  —  ill-treat 
to  the  end  a  woman  you've  already  treated  so  cruelly,  be- 
cause she  won't  let  you  take  away  the  last  bit  of  her  self- 
respect,  then  with  all  your  pride  —  your  Basque  pride  of 
which  I  heard  so  much  even  as  far  back  as  Paris  — 
you're  not  a  man  at  all!  You're  something  in  the  scrap 
heap.  I  can't  name  you.  There  is  no  name  for  you  — 
no  place !" 

In  all  her  life  Elsie  had  not  been  capable  of  a  denuncia- 


The  Next  Corner  303 

tion  like  this.  Expression  in  words  had  always  been  re- 
pressed with  her.  She  had  blazed  as  never  before.  And 
when  she  had  poured  out  in  broken  frenzy  all  that  had 
wounded  and  goaded  her  in  memory,  reaction  came ;  faint- 
ness.  She  tried  to  reach  the  opening  in  the  netting  that 
led  to  the  house,  swayed  beside  a  chair  and  sat  down,  bent 
over,  her  face  in  her  hands. 

The  silence  seemed  to  her  to  have  the  heave  of  a  pro- 
found sea,  she  a  cork  on  the  waves.  Through  soundless 
turmoil  one  thought  beat  on  her:  All  that  she  wanted  in 
life  she  was  to  lose  in  the  next  few  moments.  Robert  would 
come  and  for  the  last  time  would  look  at  her  with  the 
limpid,  restful  gaze  belonging  to  love  and  faith.  For  the 
last  time  and  for  just  a  breath,  she  would  be  the  self  of 
tenderness  and  peace  that  in  their  reunion  she  had  become. 
Then  all  would  change.  The  sun  would  go  out  upon  her 
world,  leaving  her  in  the  dark,  in  the  pulling  and  discard- 
ing sea  where  she  seemed  gasping  now.  Yes,  the  sun 
would  go  out  upon  her  world.  It  would  crash  into  space. 

Something  soft,  falling,  fluttering  first  upon  her  head 
and  then  brushing  her  propped  arms,  made  her  drop  her 
hands  from  her  eyes.  Still  bent  over,  her  glance  moved 
downward.  The  strife  within  her  and  the  pressure  of  her 
convulsed  fingers  upon  her  lids  had  blurred  her  sight  to 
a  haze  of  dancing  colors,  yet  through  it  she  saw  what  was 
unbelievable :  Her  letter  —  the  fresh,  gray-blue  square, 
face  upward,  with  Robert's  name  and  New  York  address 
in  her  writing  —  lying  at  her  feet,  against  her  skirt. 

Her  stare  remained  on  it,  refusing  to  take  it  in.  She 
gave  a  jolting  look  up  at  Serafin.  He  was  changed.  His 
arms  were  stiff,  pressed  against  his  sides,  the  hands 
doubled  into  fists.  Something  that  evaded  her  was 
in  his  face,  so  dead,  that  a  glaze  seemed  to  have  crept 
over  it,  —  just  as  she  had  often  seen  the  roofs'  red  tiles 
take  on  what  seemed  a  cloak  of  cobwebs  under  the  cold 
glamour  of  dawn.  While  her  eyes  were  held  by  him,  she 
was  overpoweringly  conscious  of  the  letter  within  reach 
of  her  hand,  yet  could  not  stoop  for  it.  The  something 


304  The  Next  Corner 

about  him  that  had  eluded  her  was  changing  to  the  appal- 
ling. She  felt  the  recoil  that  strikes  warm  blood  at  the 
sight  of  sudden  death. 

"Yours.  Pick  it  up."  The  words  mild,  cool,  had  the 
remotest  detachment  in  them.  "I  don't  know  why  I've 
given  it  to  you  — "  He  paused,  turned  his  head  slowly 
as  if  forced  to  look  at  some  passer-by,  moved  it  in  an 
uncertain  way  from  side  to  side  —  blank  amazement  in 
it,  helplessness.  "And  yet  —  yet  I  do  —  yes,  I  do  know" 
...  he  said  after  a  long  pause,  the  tone  without  body ; 
void  and  thin  as  the  crash  of  empty  eggshells.  "Pick  it 
up." 

She  obeyed.  When  she  felt  her  fingers  close  about  the 
letter  as  they  had  so  often  in  her  imaginings,  and  when 
she  saw  it  in  her  grasp,  the  chilling  incomprehensibility 
of  Serafin  went  away.  Strength  came,  a  tingling  fire. 
And  the  solid  earth  was  back  under  her  feet. 

"I  —  I  — !"  She  looked  up  to  say  something  —  she 
had  no  idea  what  —  something  inarticulate,  some  wild 
sound  of  relief  and  gratitude  —  and  Serafin  was  not 
there. 

He  had  vanished  with  the  stealth  and  silence  that  had 
always  characterized  him.  No  one  else  that  she  had  ever 
known  could  have  so  flashed  away  with  no  more  sound 
than  a  shadow,  although  the  panel  of  netting  on  the  house 
side  resting  unfastened  against  its  bamboo  jamb,  showed 
that  he  had  crossed  in  front  of  her  to  leave  in  the  ordinary 
way. 

Elsie  started  up,  had  taken  a  few  steps  toward  this 
opening  when  the  small  sound  of  the  street  door  shutting 
carefully  reached  her.  He  was  gone,  then.  He  was  really 
gone,  —  out  of  the  house,  out  of  her  life.  And  the  letter 
was  hers ! 

Here  it  was  in  her  hand.  No,  in  her  two  hands,  crushed 
between  them  in  a  silent,  racking  sort  of  thanksgiving, 
pressed  to  her  heart,  to  her  shaking  lips.  It  was  hers  to 
destroy.  Her  many  prayers  were  answered.  Robert 
would  never  read  what  had  been  for  so  long  her  secret 


The  Next  Corner  305 

torment  and  through  it  suffer  what  she  felt  to  be  un- 
bearable. God  had  helped  her.  At  the  last  moment  He 
had  softened  her  enemy's  enigmatic  heart,  poured  His 
mercy  upon  her  even  through  the  medium  that  had  seemed 
all  hardness  and  menace  and  hatred.  This  letter  had 
been  the  wake  of  fear  following  her  for  so  long!  It 
never  would  again.  No  eye  but  hers  would  see  those  stab- 
bing words  now.  Serafin  had  gone,  defeated ;  finished.  He 
would  appear  in  her  life  no  more. 

She  suddenly  stood  very  still,  listening.  The  effort  to 
hear  was  projected  so  violently,  all  her  muscles  down  to 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  took  on  the  density  of  iron.  She 
had  the  look  of  a  bird  that  through  full-throated  singing 
has  heard  the  stealthy  on-coming  of  a  cat  in  the  branches 
and  grows  mute,  yet  too  palsied  by  shock  to  stir. 

If  Serafin  were  gone,  then  who  had  again  shut  the  street 
door?  Who  was  moving  in  the  shadows,  —  and  coming 
toward  her  now  with  sounds  of  confusion  and  haste,  yet 
without  a  word?  The  steps  were  not  those  of  the  linen- 
soled  servants.  It  was  not  Robert,  or  she  would  have 
heard  the  gay,  Spanish  voices  of  his  friends  with  him.  It 
must  mean  that  Serafin  had  come  back.  He  had  only 
softened  and  surrendered  transiently.  He  was  returning! 

These  thoughts  fell  from  her  as  a  heavy  cloak,  sud- 
denly loosened,  drops  from  the  shoulders.  Beyond  the 
screen,  and  in  the  soft  light  of  the  nearer  hall,  Robert  was 
outlined  to  her.  He  came  quickly,  his  head  thrust  for- 
ward in  the  alert  way  of  one  who  having  been  awakened 
by  a  puzzling  sound,  seeks  its  meaning.  He  pushed  the 
frail  door  open  with  an  uneasy  sharpness  and  stepped  to 
where  the  yellow  lamplight  shone  fully  on  him,  —  showed 
his  eyes  riveted  on  her,  mystified,  a  rigid  furrow  pointing 
his  brows. 

"What  happened?"  he  asked.  The  distressful  picture 
Elsie  made  fitted  to  what  had  already  startled  him  and 
brought  panic  to  his  mind. 

Her  luminous  hair,  that  had  been  loosened  by  the 
thrusts  of  her  distraught  fingers,  had  slipped  down  and 


306  The  Next  Corner 

clung  in  wisps  to  her  damp  cheeks  and  forehead.  This 
was  a  frame  for  a  terrifying  pallor,  the  wild,  fumbling 
gaze  of  eyes  grown  slightly  bloodshot,  telling  of  some 
agitation  as  yet  unexplained. 

She  had  stepped  away  from  him,  backward.  The  letter, 
crumpled  into  a  stiff  strip,  was  held  in  both  tense  hands 
clasped  before  her.  She  had  the  wish  to  answer,  to  ar- 
range herself,  to  prepare  him  for  what  she  had  to  tell, 
but  not  the  power.  The  sickness  that  earlier  had  heaved 
over  her  returned,  this  time  with  ferocious  force.  As  she 
fought  it,  havoc  within  and  without,  Robert's  voice  kept 
reaching  her.  Sometimes  it  sounded  assailingly  near  — 
then  far  away.  And  when  the  qualms  that  she  resisted 
seemed  to  pull  her  under  water,  blind  and  deaden  her, 
she  did  not  hear  it  at  all. 

Enough  reached  her  to  make  her  know  that  something 
—  she  did  not  understand  what  —  had  prevented  the 
Morenos  from  returning  with  him.  After  a  delay  caused 
by  his  taking  —  some  one  —  somewhere  —  he  had  hurried 
home.  He  was  bringing  the  car  to  a  stop  at  the  door 
when  he  saw  Olazaba  come  out  —  slip  out  in  a  curious 
way  that  had  alarmed  him.  They  had  met  on  the  house 
path.  Olazaba  had  pushed  past  him  violently: 

"...  looked  queer  —  infuriated  .  .  .  pain  .  .  . 
I  rushed  after  and  got  hold  of  him  .  .  .  not  a  word 
.  .  .  got  away  ...  a  ghost  —  a  madman !" .  .  . 

Robert  had  come  closer  to  Elsie,  fiery  anxiety  in  his 
eyes.  She  was  aware  of  this  through  a  murk;  knew  that 
his  hands  were  held  out  to  her ;  knew,  too,  that  if  she  gave 
him  her  own  the  letter  must  go  with  them.  She  could  not 
stir;  she  tried  to  hold  to  him  with  her  desperate  gaze, 
back  of  which  the  sickness  was  now  like  a  giant  trying  to 
throw  her. 

"You  so  silent  all  night  —  as  if  trouble  .  .  .  some- 
thing ...  I  felt,  seemed  to  know  .  .  .  What  hap- 
pened after  I  left?  —  Elsie!  My  God  —  what?  .  .  . 
Olazaba?  .  .  .  Ill,  dear?  —  You  can't  tell  me  now?" 

The  air  seemed  to  crash  on  Elsie,  take  her  down  with 


The  Next  Corner  307 

it,  as  if  she  had  been  standing  in  a  house  that  had  sud- 
denly caved  in.  In  the  debacle  the  letter  left  her  hold. 
She  felt  it  go.  Robert  had  her  hands,  her  fingers,  deathly 
cold,  fastening  on  his  like  claws.  In  a  last  effort  at  re- 
trieval she  tore  them  from  him,  crushed  them,  empty, 
against  her  heart,  put  them  out  again  to  him  —  blindly 
now  —  for  his  face  had  changed  to  a  far,  far  speck  — 
and  the  letter,  lying  on  the  floor  beside  him,  to  a  pale 
splash  that  grew  and  grew  monstrously  until  it  rose  to 
the  height  of  a  tidal  wave  and  surged  over  everything. 

"No  use,  no  use  — "  he  heard  her  sigh,  her  sight  going 
into  eclipse  while  fumbling,  with  saddest  longing  in  it, 
for  his  face. 

"Elsie  —  Elsie  — !"  came  to  her  faintly,  —  the  call 
over  a  mountain  of  one  coming  to  help. 

She  had  sense  that  his  arms  swept  around  her,  dragged 
her  up.  They  had  seemed  to  come  at  the  very  last  second 
to  save  her  from  unplumbed  blackness  into  which  she  had 
Vegun  to  fall. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 

ON  her  bed,  where  Robert  had  placed  her,  Elsie  lay,  un- 
conscious. His  strong  fingers  on  her  pulse  could  find 
no  beat  at  first,  then  a  very  faint  fluttering.  Her  flesh 
was  like  damp  marble  to  his  touch.  He  had  hurried  Do- 
mingo with  the  car  to  Valencia  to  bring  back  the  best 
doctor  in  the  place ;  and  Candida  had  come  on  a  rush  — 
silent,  all  eyes  and  quiverings  —  to  help  him  undress  her 
beloved  mistress. 

As  they  lifted  the  unresponsive  body,  saw  the  loosened 
hair,  a  length  of  silvery  floss,  flash  backward  like  a  flag 
in  calm  air,  the  face  sculptured  in  a  look  of  weary 
negation  —  a  terribly  finished  look  —  Elsie's  likeness  to 
death  drove  a  pang  through  Robert's  heart,  seemed  to 
take  his  eyes,  leaving  only  hot  rims  around  two  spots  of 
mist.  —  Elsie  dead?  If  Elsie  should  die!  Elsie  — 
dead?  .  .  . 

When  she  was  resting  between  the  sheets,  the  stupor 
enduring  against  all  efforts  to  revive  her,  Robert  left  her 
with  Candida.  His  step  as  unsteady  as  a  man's  touched 
by  liquor,  he  went  out  to  the  gallery  where  they  had  dined. 
As  soon  as  he  passed  through  the  screen  door  the  thought 
that  had  been  holding  with  strength  back  of  all  his 
trouble  shot  up  into  a  question,  —  a  driving  one :  What 
had  taken  place  on  this  spot  during  his  absence?  He 
faced  some  unintelligible,  confounding  thing.  There  was 
Olazaba's  sudden  going;  his  surprising  repulse  on  their 
meeting;  the  dementia  of  his  look  when  on  being  over- 
taken he  had  torn  away  and  darted  into  the  darkness. 
Joining  this  was  Elsie's  mute  despair;  the  something  she 
had  seemed  trying  to  tell  him;  the  sickness  that  had  fol- 
lowed her  dumb  and  pitiful  struggle  as  if  agitation  in  a 
torrent  had  swept  her  down. 

308 


The  Next  Corner  309 

He  was  motionless  on  the  spot  where  he  had  stood  be- 
fore, when  his  eyes  were  caught  by  the  folded  piece  of 
paper  that  had  fallen  from  her  hands  when  he  had  taken 
them.  What  was  it  that  she  had  held  so?  —  Would  this 
explain?  —  Why  had  she  not  given  it  to  him?  —  Had  she 
meant  not  to  give  it  ?  —  The  pervading  question  had  split 
to  these  quick  and  short  ones,  hurtling  one  over  the  other 
in  his  mind,  while  he  had  picked  the  small  thing  up,  flat- 
tened it,  thrust  it  under  the  shade  of  one  of  the  lamps  to 
the  full  light,  stared  at  it. 

He  could  only  stare.  The  longer  he  did  this  the  more 
unreal  what  he  saw  became.  After  a  pause,  during  which 
he  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  suspension  as  if  held  in 
space  on  his  own  halted  breath,  he  turned  the  letter  over, 
looked  at  the  seal  of  solid  wax  with  the  indent  of  a  crest 
where  the  words  "lealdad  .  .  .  amor  de  Dios  .  .  ." 
came  out  indistinctly,  turned  it  again,  and  again  studied 
the  address  upon  it. 

Candida  had  come  to  his  side.  When  she  found  it  nec- 
essary to  speak  to  him  twice  before  he  heard  her,  her 
eyes  had  flashed  in  alarm  from  the  letter  to  his  face: 

"The  doctor  has  come,  senor.     He  is  with  the  senora." 

It  was  a  little  more  than  an  hour  later.  After  arous- 
ing Elsie  from  insensibility,  the  doctor  had  strengthened 
her  heart,  and  from  this  she  had  lapsed  into  natural  sleep. 
His  smile  and  shrug  on  leaving  as  he  talked  confidentially 
with  Robert  had  been  contented,  approving: 

"Nothing  serious  —  nothing  but  what  I  tell  you,"  he 
had  said,  with  suave  pats  on  his  patron's  arm.  "You 
will  see  that  I  am  right  in  my  surmise.  Scarcely  any  two 
women  are  alike  under  these  circumstances.  There  is  fre- 
quently from  the  beginning  a  disposition  to  weakness  like 
this,  particularly  when  as  now  —  from  what  you  say  — 
something  has  happened  to  unnerve,  perhaps  frighten  — 
you  understand?  Quiet  alone  is  needed.  Yet  should  you 
wish  me  to  come  in  the  morning,  let  me  know." 

The  big  bedroom  was  as  still  as  a  church.  Elsie  slept 
with  light,  soft  breathing.  Candida  was  under  the  net- 


310  The  Next  Corner 

ting,  on  a  low  seat  beside  the  bed;  her  arm  rested  on  it; 
a  fan  was  motionless  in  her  limp  hand  as  she  half-slum- 
bered. The  colored  lantern  suspended  on  a  chain  from 
the  dimness  of  the  ribbed  ceiling  was  the  only  light.  Most 
of  the  place  was  in  shadow. 

Like  the  sweep  of  small,  brown  wings,  Elsie's  lids  came 
up.  A  wavering  look  about,  and  they  closed  again  in  the 
sensuously  grateful  way  that  belongs  to  the  coming  of 
desired  sleep.  This  lasted  a  few  seconds,  and  the  eyes 
opened,  this  time  sharply,  and  remained  fixed.  She  rose 
with  careful  quiet  to  her  elbow.  Peering  dread  through 
the  curtains  which  showed  her  the  empty  room  changed 
to  manifest  relief,  and  she  looked  at  the  mestizo's  drooped 
head. 

There  was  a  hushed  "Candida !"  and  the  girl  felt  cold 
fingers  brush  her  wrist. 

"Senora!"  She  sprang  up  with  her  sweeping  grace, 
took  the  expectant  hand  and  waited,  her  face  bright  with 
inquiring  tenderness. 

"Where  is  the — ?"  Elsie  began,  and  paused  with  flut- 
tering throat. 

"The  senor?  He  is  in  his  own  room,  dear  senora.  He 
said  I  must  tell  him  when  you  awakened." 

"Don't  tell  him!"  came  with  a  clutch  on  Candida's 
fingers.  Elsie  fell  back  on  the  pillows.  "I  remember  the 
doctor.  —  Was  the  senor  here,  then  —  all  the  time? 
Come  closer.  Tell  me  how  the  senor  seemed  —  what  he 
said?" 

Candida  knelt  beside  the  pillow,  all  willing  secrecy. 
"The  senor  was  here  part  of  the  time.  When  the  doctor 
left,  he  came  back.  He  seemed  sad,  senora,  but  glad  to 
see  you  sleeping,  and  he  went  away  —  oh,  taking  much 
care  to  make  no  sound." 

She  saw  Elsie  tremble.  The  next  words  were  very  faint, 
of  prodding  earnestness :  "Go  out  to  the  gallery,  Candida. 
Look  on  the  floor  for  a  letter  —  close  to  the  table  —  a 
small  letter  — " 

"It's  not  there,  dear  senora  — " 


The  Next  Corner  311 

"You  know!     You  have  it!"  came  with  joy. 

"No  — "  She  broke  off,  almost  silenced  by  the  dread 
in  the  unmoving  eyes.  "The  senor  must  have  found  it, 
because  when  I  went  out  there  to  say  that  the  doctor  had 
come,  it  was  already  in  his  hand." 

The  rigid  eyes  seemed  to  say:  "Go  on.    What  else?" 

"He  was  turning  it  around,  looking  at  the  envelope  as 
if  he  did  not  understand  it,  senora.  When  I  told  him 
the  doctor  was  here,  he  came  in  with  me." 

There  was  a  pause,  then  a  heavy  question:  "Was  that 
long  ago?" 

"At  about  half-past  ten,  senora.  It  is  nearly  twelve 
now." 

Elsie  sank  into  profound  stillness.  There  was  nothing 
more  to  be  said  or  learned.  Robert  had  the  letter.  With- 
out a  word  from  her  ahead  of  that  disclosure  —  one  word 
to  soften  it  and  help  her  with  him  —  he  had  read  what 
she  had  come  to  view  as  abominable.  Lines  from  it  seemed 
to  split  into  black  grimacing  atoms  before  her:  "...  I 
could  not  keep  faith  with  you  ...  I  would  endure  any 
hardships  for  his  sake  ...  I  am  in  love  —  madly  in 
love !" .  .  .  Following  this  she  had  a  picture  of  Robert, 
at  that  moment,  in  his  room.  The  letter  was  at  his  feet. 
He  had  dropped  it  there  as  one  would  something  that  was 
soiled,  or  that  scorched  the  fingers.  He  was  facing  what 
he  believed  was  her  real  self,  deceitfully  hidden  from  him. 
The  thought  was  tearing  him  that  she  had  been  to  Arturo 
all  that  a  woman  could  be  to  a  man.  Tearing  him,  too, 
and  humiliating  him  was  the  conclusion  that,  instead  of 
love,  world  wisdom  and  self-interest  had  brought  her  back 
to  him. 

A  dislocating  sort  of  suffering  sent  heat  over  Elsie's 
brain.  She  could  not  face  what  was  ahead  of  her.  The 
determination  to  escape  it  took  on  a  rocklike  strength  — 
not  to  see  Robert  again;  not  to  plead;  not  to  fight. 
Nothing  could  ever  be  as  it  had  been.  There  was  nothing 
left  of  their  life  together  but  torn  ends  and  blots,  —  only 
things  for  which  to  be  sorry.  The  letter  had  done  this, 


312  The  Next  Corner 

as  she  had  for  so  long  dreaded.  The  blazing  words,  ex- 
tolling a  delirium  believed  in  when  written  as  the  invin- 
cible truth,  had  blotted  and  scorched  the  thought  of  her 
to  Robert,  forever. 

As  she  flung  back  the  bedclothes  and  the  cloud  of  net- 
ting, she  was  a  little  wild.  Yet  standing  up  straight  in 
her  nightgown  she  looked  much  like  a  human  lily,  sway- 
ing on  its  long  stalk. 

"Get  my  clothes,"  she  directed  on  an  uneven  breath 
and  began  to  twist  up  her  hair. 

She  made  it  plain  as  well  as  she  could  —  for  the  Span- 
ish kept  slipping  from  her  hurried  need  of  it  —  that  she 
was  going  to  leave  the  house  quietly  at  once  and  get  to 
Valencia.  In  the  morning  she  would  take  an  early  train 
to  Caracas  and  then  the  first  boat  from  La  Guaira  to  the 
States.  She  did  not  want  the  senor  to  know.  She  would 
manage  to  hide  somewhere  in  Valencia. 

"Senora!"  The  girl's  eyes,  widening  in  a  paling  face, 
had  the  effect  of  splashes  of  black  ink.  "You  must  not 
go !"  came  from  her  on  a  cry  of  warning.  "Dios  —  no  ! 
What  would  happen  to  you  far  away  from  this  house  and 
from  your  husband  when  your  trouble  comes  upon  you?" 

Elsie's  shoulders  gave  a  sharp  twist  upward.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

"The  child  —  senora.  Ah,  when  the  doctor  told  me 
and  said  I  must  take  good  care  of  you,  I  was  so  happy. 
And  you  —  you?  —  you  are  not  happy?" 

For  Elsie's  arms  had  dropped.  With  taut  brows  and 
mouth  fallen  she  stood  inert  in  Candida's  embrace. 

"Oh,"  came  from  her,  almost  without  sound,  and  then 
faint  and  dragging :  "Oh  —  oh,  no !" 

The  girl's  heart  grew  very  sad.  What  she  had  felt 
would  be  a  crowning  argument  for  steadfastness  and  se- 
curity had  failed.  Her  mistress,  with  a  new  sort  of 
strength  and  a  dangerous  quiet,  had  pushed  her  away 
and  begun  to  dress. 

Very  soon  afterwards  Candida  was  beating  a  faint 
tattoo  with  her  nails  on  Robert's  door.  It  was  quickly 


The  Next  Corner  313 

opened.  Her  master  had  changed  from  his  dinner  jacket 
to  a  loosely  open  corduroy  house  coat,  though  otherwise 
dressed  as  he  had  been.  The  room  beyond  him,  hazy  with 
tobacco,  was  brightly  lit.  She  could  see  that  his  eyes, 
whose  blueness  she  admired,  had  the  look  often  noticed  on 
the  faces  of  peddlers,  when  fagged  from  body-racking 
trudges  over  the  mountains,  they  would  drop  to  rest  in  a 
shady  part  of  the  servants'  courtyard. 

"Go  to  the  senora,  please,"  she  prayed.  "She  seems  a 
little  out  of  her  head !  —  She  has  sent  me  to  get  out  her 
car  —  and  steal  away  with  her  to  Valencia  —  to-night, 
senor.  And  after  that  she  is  to  get  to  the  coast,  to  some 
boat.  —  Oh,  go  to  her  —  but  do  not  say  I  told  you  —  or 
my  dear  senora  will  be  angry  with  me!"  With  this  deso- 
late finish  and  big  sobs,  Candida  flung  her  apron  over 
her  face  and  swayed  off  hopelessly  toward  her  own 
quarters. 

Elsie  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  when,  after  a 
touch  upon  the  glass  panels,  Robert  stepped  in.  She  was 
tense,  her  hands  clasped  and  pressed  down  hard  between 
her  knees.  She  had  heard  his  step,  seen  his  shadow  on 
the  panes,  and  she  was  the  image  of  fear.  There  was,  too, 
something  almost  grotesquely  ineffectual  about  her  awed 
and  watching  face  surmounted  by  the  traveling  turban 
and  veil,  much  as  if  a  staring  doll,  bent  and  placed  at  a 
right  angle,  were  trying  to  be  the  miracle  of  a  woman. 

She  did  not  stir  while  Robert  sat  down  beside  her, 
treating  her  exactly  as  he  would  a  sick  child  whose  fancies 
were  freakish.  She  heard  him  say  he  had  seen  Candida 
scurrying  along  the  hall  and  had  come  in,  hoping  to  find 
her  awake.  After  one  look  at  him  she  turned  her  head 
away  sharply.  She  could  not  understand  his  repose  and 
tenderness ;  they  added  confusion  to  her  trouble.  In  body 
she  remained  like  an  automaton,  let  him  take  off  her  hat, 
lift  her  stiff  hands  and  gently  draw  off  the  gloves,  finger 
by  finger,  but  when  he  would  have  kissed  her  cheek,  her 
uneasy  heart  made  her  flinch  as  if  he  had  tried  to  strike 
her.  She  sprang  up.  A  despairing  declaration  was  in 


314  The  Next  Corner 

her  look  as  it  wavered  over  him,  and  it  burst  from  her  in 
a  wrung,  unwilling  way  : 

"You  found  —  and  read  —  my  letter  to  you." 

"I  haven't  read  it,  Elsie,"  Robert  said,  —  a  rational, 
quieting  tone.  "Not  yet." 

Her  throat  filled.  Her  hand  went  up  to  it.  "Why?" 
she  stammered. 

"Well,  I  felt  that  you  didn't  want  me  to  read  it.  In- 
stinct, I  suppose.  And  you  didn't?" 

"No !" 

"Ah,  I  was  sure  of  that.     Come  here,  Elsie." 

He  made  her  sit  in  an  armchair  and  sat  facing  her, 
bending  forward  in  a  familiar  way.  His  face  was  pale 
and  very  tired,  destitute  of  every  active  emotion.  And 
yet  its  deep  calm  came  to  Elsie  as  sorrow  in  a  prophetic 
way;  it  was  as  if  stillness  had  suddenly  fallen  on  a  stone 
place  that  had  just  been  filled  with  outcry  and  tumult. 
The  roar  had  been  in  herself.  And  this  peace  from 
Robert  in  which  she  could  rest,  get  breath,  and  think, 
would  hold  only  briefly.  It  was  there  because  he  had  not 
read  the  letter  —  not  yet ;  because  they  were  still  as  they 
had  been.  A  longing  shot  through  her.  If  she  could  hold 
that  moment  stationary,  forever! 

"You  had  a  shock  of  some  sort  to-night,"  Robert  said, 
as  she  sat  back,  her  eyes  closed,  listening  with  steady 
prescience  of  pain  ahead  to  every  clear  word,  "and  you're 
still  very  weak,  my  darling.  Now  I  don't  want  you  to 
talk  at  all  —  no  explanation  to  distress  you.  You  are 
to  listen  to  me.  And  after  that  you're  to  go  to  bed  again 
"and  try  to  sleep." 

She  could  feel  him  bend  a  little  nearer,  but  he  did  not 
touch  her  fingers  that  were  close  to  him,  clasped  about 
the  thin  bamboo  arm  of  the  chair. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you  my  impressions  about  what  I 
feel  is  troubling  you.  —  When  I  picked  up  the  paper 
that  fell  from  your  hand  as  you  fainted  and  found  it  a 
letter  written  by  you  to  me,  with  a  Spanish  stamp  on  it 
and  sealed  with  a  Spanish  crest,  I  was  astounded.  I'd 


The  Next  Corner  315 

have  opened  it  on  impulse,  I'm  quite  sure,  if  I'd  not  been 
called  away  to  see  Doctor  De  Lima,  who  was  with  you. 
Well,"  the  voice  throbbed  on  reflectively,  "all  the  while 
he  was  here  I'd  been  piecing  things  about  it  together 
in  the  back  of  my  mind.  First  I  realized  that  you  must 
have  written  it  last  summer,  as  that  was  the  only  time 
you'd  been  in  Spain,  and  from  the  crest  no  doubt  in  the 
house  you  were  visiting  there  —  El  Miradero,  the  place 
that  my  letter  went  to  and  that  you  told  me  you'd  never 
received.  When  I  felt  sure  of  this,  the  memory  dug  in 
that  you  had  gone  there  directly  after  our  unsatisfactory 
meeting  in  Paris.  And  then  — "  After  a  pause  he  spoke 
with  slow  emphasis :  "  —  then,  of  course,  I  remembered 
that  in  New  York,  last  September,  you  told  me  that  you 
had  not  written  to  me  —  not  once  —  after  leaving  me.'' 

Glancing  at  him,  Elsie  saw  that  he  had  propped  his 
head  on  his  hands,  the  fingers  outspread  and  further 
ruffling  the  rippling  hair. 

"The  mind  is  a  mine  of  many  crisscross  veins,  Elsie. 
One  deduction  after  another  can  strike  on  them  like 
spades,  disclosing  them.  It  became  obvious  that  you 
had  some  strong  reason  for  telling  me  a  falsehood  in 
New  York.  You  had  written  me  from  Spain  —  and  here 
was  the  letter  in  my  hand !  .  .  .  After  this  I  recalled  a 
number  of  things.  They  came  in  a  jumble  —  most  clearly 
things  Selena  had  complained  of  when  we  first  came  to 
El  Iris,  of  your  secretly  watching  the  mails  ahead  of  any 
one  else,  to  get  letters  for  yourself.  Was  it,  instead,  I 
asked  myself,  this  letter  of  your  own  to  me  that  you  had 
tried  to  intercept?  Each  time  the  question  came  I  felt 
more  surely  that  the  answer  was  'yes.'  Was  I  right  in 
thinking  this?"  he  asked,  as  he  looked  up. 

Without  meeting  his  eyes,  and  pale-lipped,  she  nodded 
an  affirmative. 

"Then  of  course  you  must  have  believed  it  had  been 
mailed.  Also,  of  course,  your  attempts  to  intercept  it 
could  only  mean  that  you  did  not  want  me  ever  to  know 
of  it."  He  gave  a  sigh  here.  "Things  got  very  muddled 


316  The  Next  Corner 

after  that.  How  did  the  letter  get  into  your  possession 
to-night,  without  having  come  through  the  mail? 
Where  had  it  come  from?  This  thought  brought  me  up, 
face  front,  to  the  thought  of  Olazaba.  What  had  he  to 
do  with  the  whole  business?  And  what  about  several 
things  that  had  vaguely  puzzled  me  from  the  moment 
of  his  arrival  here  —  your  sadness  and  silence  all  the 
evening;  his  admission  for  the  first  time  that  he  was  a 
Basque ;  the  way  he  ran  from  this  house  before  my  return, 
and  with  the  look  of  a  man  chased  by  the  furies?  The 
meaning  of  it  all  —  this  old  letter  from  Spain  —  this 
man,  a  native  of  Spain  —  and  all  the  rest?" 

He  bent  over  and  put  his  hands  on  Elsie's  arms.  She 
did  not  respond.  When,  instead,  she  drew  away  and  a 
look  of  panic  scudded  over  her  shrouded  face,  Robert's 
heart  contracted. 

"Elsie,"  he  cried  out,  "you  are  not  afraid  of  me !  Why 
don't  you  look  at  me?  How  much  of  what  I've  reasoned 
out  is  true,  dear?  What  had  Olazaba  to  do  with  this 
letter?  —  or  had  he  anything  to  with  it?" 

Her  eyes,  dark  and  weary,  faltered  before  his  as  she 
forced  her  stiff  lips  to  speech:  "Yes,  he  brought  it." 

"Brought  it?"  Robert  demanded.  "Where  did  he  get 
it?  How—?" 

"He  stole  it  —  long  ago  —  the  night  I  wrote  it  —  " 

"In  Spain !"  Robert  exclaimed,  as  she  paused. 

"At  the  Marques  de  Burgos's  house  —  last  June." 
She  drew  in  a  long  breath.  "It  was  given  to  him  to  be 
posted.  Instead,  he  kept  it.  He  was  a  valet  —  there." 

"Olazaba !" 

"Yes,  he  was  Don  Arturo's  foster  brother,  and  he  was 
also  —  as  needed  —  his  confidential  man,  courier,  valet, 
butler,  or  cook.  He  attended  to  everything  for  his  em- 
ployer. Juan  Serafin  Olazaba.  That's  his  name.  I  only 
knew  him  as  Serafin  until  he  came  to-night." 

In  the  silence  that  followed  each  felt  illimitable  empti- 
ness, loneliness.  The  earth  seemed  to  have  grown  very 
still  and  they  suddenly  miles  apart. 


The  Next  Corner  317 

"I  see." 

Robert's  dull  and  wandering  tone  was  at  sharp  variance 
with  the  words,  though  he  asked  no  question,  and  sat  back 
with  the  look  of  one  who  is  willing  to  wait.  He  could 
not  understand  the  sudden  despondency  that  went  over 
him  at  the  picture  Elsie's  words  conveyed  —  his  wife's 
letter  going  into  the  hands  of  a  Spanish  valet  in  Spain, 
and  that  valet  the  man  known  to  him  here  for  months  as 
a  Venezuelan  speculator.  Nor  could  he  tell  why  with 
the  same  shadowy  sort  of  pain,  the  Marques  de  Burgos, 
his  employer,  who  was  also  Don  Arturo,  the  friend  of  his 
wife,  should  for  the  first  time  emerge  from  the  cloudland 
of  non-acquaintance  and  become  significant  as  a  man; 
cease  to  be  only  a  name  as  heretofore. 

Something  of  this  was  showing  in  his  face  when  Elsie 
started  up  with  the  fling  of  the  head  that  tells  of  the 
unbearable.  She  walked  quickly  into  the  shadows  and 
came  back  to  look  down  at  him.  Her  gaze  with  bitter 
resolution  in  it  bathed  him  before  she  spoke: 

"Robert,"  and  the  tone  suggested  a  missile  flung  from 
a  distance  by  wild  hands,  "I  want  you  to  sit  there  and  let 
me  walk  about  —  as  I  talk.  I  can't  be  still !  If  I  keep 
walking  —  and  thinking  —  and  I  don't  see  you  —  I  can 
tell  you  —  what  I  have  to  tell  you !" 

Robert  had  conquered  his  incomprehensible  foreboding. 
Fancies  had  transient  life  in  the  clarity  of  his  mind. 

"Is  it,"  he  smiled,  "as  bad  as  that?  I  don't  think  it  is, 
Elsie.  What  more  you  have  to  say  can  wait  until  morn- 
ing, when  you're  stronger  after  a  good  sleep.  This  is 
what  I  wish." 

"I  shall  never  sleep  until  I've  told  you" 

"In  the  morning — " 

"111  tell  you  now!" 

"But  you've  already  explained  the  only  thing  that  up- 
set me  —  Olazaba's  part  in  this  trouble  to-night,"  he 
urged.  "The  rest  —  all  about  the  letter  —  I  know.  No 
need  of  another  word  from  you." 

"Know?  —  how  can  you?  You  said  you  hadn't  read 
it!" 


318  The  Next  Corner 

"I  haven't.  I  meant  to  give  it  to  you  as  soon  as  I  saw 
you.  I  will  in  a  moment.  It's  in  my  dinner  coat.  Ah, 
Elsie  — !"  and  the  broken  phrase  of  comprehensive  love 
had  the  sun  in  it. 

She  had  flung  out  one  hand  excitedly.  He  had  taken  it 
and  was  holding  it  with  warmth  and  strength,  so  cosily, 
so  carefully,  he  seemed  drawing  into  a  sheltering  embrace 
all  her  sad  and  shaken  self.  His  next  words  swept  clean 
away  this  flickering  rapture  —  made  her  change  before 
her  inner  knowledge  into  something  small  and  contemp- 
tible, sick,  cold  and  guilty. 

"I  can  see  the  salient  things,  dear  —  through  feeling. 
See  if  I'm  not  right !  —  When  you  got  to  Spain  you  wrote 
me  a  letter  in  which  you  poured  out  all  that  was  in  your 
dissatisfied  heart  —  dwelt  on  the  disillusionment  you  had 
felt  during  that  miserable  meeting  in  Paris.  You  said 
you  were  not  happy.  You  reproached  me.  Perhaps  you 
said  you  were  not  coming  home  —  for  I  remember  that  in 
New  York  you  told  me  you  had  not  meant  to  come  back, 
and  that  except  for  the  war  you  would  not  have  come. 
This  letter,  born  of  an  unhappy  mood,  maybe  bitter  in 
its  reproaches,  you  thought  was  mailed.  And  by  and  by 
you  were  sorry  you'd  written  it.  You  regretted  it  so  much 
that  when,  in  New  York,  you  found  it  had  not  reached  me, 
you  determined  it  never  should.  Isn't  that  it?  And  do 
you  suppose  if  I  read  it,"  came  glowingly,  "it  could  have 
mattered  —  now?  Though  you  wrote  it,  you  loved  me! 
Probably  you  wrote  it,  hurt  and  angry,  only  because  you 
loved  me.  Ah,  dearest!  Never  think  of  it  again!" 

Elsie's  eyes  were  wet  as  she  drew  her  hand  slowly  from 
him.  She  was  saying  good-by  to  the  trust  that  was  in 
his  gaze  —  that  was  to  go  and  never  come  back. 

"It  isn't  like  that.  Oh,  I  wish  it  were!"  The  most 
desolate  longing  was  in  her  voice  that  seemed  a  small 
thing  and  far  away.  "It's  a  different  story  you're  going 
to  hear,  Robert.  Oh,  let  me  tell  you  from  the  very  be- 
ginning—  please!  —  for  that's  the  only  way  you'll  be 
able  to  understand  at  all !" 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

SERAFIN'S  progress  was  that  of  a  rapidly  moving 
shadow  against  deeper  shadows.  He  went  in  his  swift 
light  way,  seeming  to  be  hurried  without  any  will  of  his 
own,  —  in  the  grip  of  the  Fate  in  which  he  believed  and 
with  nothing  in  himself  by  which  he  could  oppose  it  or 
struggle  from  it. 

He  was  headed  for  the  hotel  in  Valencia  where  that 
morning  he  had  put  up,  yet  felt  no  surety  of  reaching  it ; 
felt  instead  that  he  would  have  to  pause  when  so  directed 
by  the  power  driving  him  on,  even  though  it  were  on  the 
roadside  to  lie  like  a  vagrant  in  the  ditch. 

Serafin  had  had  moments  like  this  before  in  his  life. 
Under  the  flow  of  smooth  and  usual  conditions  he  had 
been  clear-sighted  and  had  held  to  arranged  plans  with 
the  precision  of  a  machine,  —  one  moving  consciously  to 
the  value  of  money.  For  the  possession  of  it  had  always 
been  to  him  a  cogent  reason  for  self-respect;  the  lack  of 
it  a  descent  into  a  pitying  sort  of  self-contempt.  After 
the  failure  of  the  Logrono  mine,  years  before,  he  had  been 
reduced,  as  now,  to  the  feeling  of  having  become  a  human 
rag,  yet  —  since  Arturo,  Marques  de  Burgos,  lived  —  a 
rag  that  might  be  found  efficient  to  the  one  being  who  had 
meant  to  him  even  more  than  self.  And  he  had  proved 
this  true.  He  had  gone  back  to  Paris  to  the  man  he  loved 
and  had  felt  his  need  like  the  tug  of  hands  upon  him,  so 
that  by  degrees  he  had  again  become  a  factor  in  living, 
though  humbled  in  personal  ambition. 

It  was  different  now.  No  place  awaited  him.  No  tug 
of  hands  drew  him  on.  Instead,  —  a  new  name  had  been 
added  to  those  on  an  ancient  tomb  in  Spain. 

319 


320  The  Next  Corner 

Sensitive,  confused,  filled  with  a  wish  to  reach  a  quiet 
spot  where  he  might  settle  accounts  with  his  soul,  Serafin 
rushed  on. 

The  lights  of  the  town  were  showing  in  the  distance,  a 
sparkling  haze,  when  he  became  aware  of  other  lights,  dim 
ones,  near-by,  and  realized  that  he  had  reached  a  familiar 
spot.  This  was  a  roadside  fonda,  painted  the  harsh, 
medium-toned  blue  so  loved  of  Spain.  An  electric  light 
in  the  front  garden  showed  the  color  plainly  and  the  stiff- 
capitalled  sign  over  the  doorway:  "Los  Dos  Hermanos." 

The  sight  was  like  a  friend  coming  to  him  with  a 
familiar  hooking  of  the  arm.  Serafin  knew  this  little 
fonda  of  "The  Two  Brothers"  well.  During  his  previous 
life  in  the  neighborhood  he  had  made  it  a  sort  of  half- 
way house  for  coffee ;  sometimes  for  green-milk  cocoanuts  ; 
sometimes  for  guarapo,  —  the  raw  sugar  and  water  with 
aguardiente.  He  recalled  an  old  waiter,  name  Mateo,  in- 
clined to  be  talkative,  and  who  used  to  come  forward  in  a 
shambling,  gracious  way  to  serve  him.  He  had  a  sagging 
throat,  sad,  dark  eyes  and  always,  no  matter  how  hot  the 
weather,  had  worn  an  old,  swallow-tailed  coat  too  large 
for  him,  evidently  a  second-hand  gift  from  some  portly 
patron.  Of  course  he  was  gone,  probably  dead  —  No !  — 
there  he  was. 

For  Serafin  had  crossed  the  garden  and  was  at  the  open 
door  of  the  fonda,  though  not  conscious  of  clear  intention 
to  enter  it ;  and  the  old  waiter  who  had  been  placing  one 
bared  table  on  top  of  another  in  a  corner  because  it  was 
almost  closing  time,  had  turned,  was  coming  toward  him 
in  the  remembered  shambling  and  gracious  way. 

"It  is  too  late,  perhaps?"  Serafin  asked. 

"It  is  never  too  late,  seiior"  the  old  man  crooned,  "if 
there  is  a  customer." 

Serafin  sat  at  a  table  near  the  door,  one  not  yet  divested 
of  its  cloth  and  facing  the  dark-blue  shining  of  the  night. 
He  took  off  his  Panama  hat  and  passed  his  hands  over 
his  face  that  was  hot  and  damp. 

"I'll  have  some  brandy  —  and  coffee." 


The  Next  Corner  321 

"Do  you  wish  the  coffee  in  a  glass,  and  black,  senor? 
Or  with  milk?" 

"Black  and  very  strong,"  he  said. 

As  he  spoke  he  turned  his  face  to  the  waiter.  The  old 
man  with  the  habitual,  self-effacing  smile  that  had  become 
a  label,  paused  as  he  was  about  to  turn  away. 

"Do  you  remember  me,  Mateo?"  Serafin  asked. 

And  after  a  thoughtful  look  into  the  stranger's  eyes  — 
such  odd,  oblique  eyes ;  so  hollowed,  driven,  sad  —  the 
Avaiter  nodded.  "Surely  you  are  the  gentleman  who 
years  ago  —  five,  six  —  I  do  not  know,  they  go  so  fast," 
he  purred,  "used  to  come  here  so  often?  Did  you  not 
tell  me  you  were  from  the  Basque  country,  senor?  Oh, 
yes,  I  do  remember  you  —  well." 

"Bueno!  It  is  nice  to  be  remembered,"  Serafin  said, 
"but  when  I  entered  I  had  no  idea  you  would  be  here  — 
and  the  same,  indeed  the  very  same.  To  be  truthful,  you 
were  old  then  —  but  you  are  no  older  now.  I  con- 
gratulate you,  Mateo." 

"Many  thanks,  excellent  senor.  I  am  much  the  same. 
A  door  on  broken  hinges  can  hang  long,  it  is  said." 

Left  to  himself,  Serafin  sat  over  the  table  in  a  crumpled 
way  and  scarcely  moved  until  Mateo  returned  with  a 
tray  bearing  glasses  small  and  large  and  a  plate  with  one 
of  the  huge,  thin  cassava  cakes  of  the  country.  Even 
then,  his  air  was  so  absent  the  old  waiter,  used  to  acting 
on  whatever  hints  a  patron's  manner  conveyed,  drew  away 
from  him  without  a  word  and  took  a  seat  in  a  remote 
corner  until  the  repast  would  be  finished.  He  was  very 
tired  and  hoped  he  might  be  able  to  close  the  fonda  soon, 
—  so  tired,  that  as  the  stillness  in  the  place  continued  he 
dozed  without  intention. 

When  he  came  out  of  the  slumber  and  shook  himself, 
giving  a  glance  of  alarm  about,  he  saw  the  latecomer  still 
at  the  table,  in  exactly  the  same  position.  A  glance  at 
the  clock  showed  that  a  full  hour  had  passed,  the  striking 
of  eleven  no  doubt  having  been  the  sound  that  had 
awakened  him. 


322  The  Next  Corner 

He  went  toward  Serafin,  standing  subserviently  at  one 
side  where  he  could  see  the  table.  The  glasses  were 
emptied;  at  least  twenty  brown  cigarette  ends  lay  on  a 
saucer;  and  the  tray  was  strewn  with  what  had  been  the 
cassava  cake  —  crumbled  to  fine  powder  by  the  greenish- 
brown  fingers  that  still  crushed  it. 

Mateo  deliberately  coughed.  The  man  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  him.  He  seemed  obsessed  in  expending  on  the 
crumbs  some  fierce  desire  working  in  him  to  break  or 
assault.  The  fingers  kept  grinding  the  bread  particles 
that  were  already  dust,  after  which  they  brushed  it  into 
small  separate  mounds,  swept  these  all  together,  scattered 
this  again,  and  were  once  more  beginning  on  the  separat- 
ing and  heaping  when  the  waiter  ventured  nearer. 

"If  you  do  not  wish  anything  more,  senor  —  it  is 
very  late,"  he  said. 

Serafin's  hand  grew  still  but  he  gave  no  other  evidence 
of  having  heard. 

"The  owner  will  not  like  my  keeping  the  fonda  open 
as  late  as  this  —  "  he  had  begun  again,  when  Serafin 
turned  to  him.  Mateo  stepped  back,  chilled.  The  face 
he  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  scarcely  seemed  the  one 
seen  before,  so  changed  was  it  in  some  confounding  way; 
the  parchment-like  skin,  tightened  on  the  cheek  bones, 
had  a  waxen  glitter ;  the  upward  slanted  eyes,  blinking 
as  from  pain,  were  violently  bloodshot. 

"Have  you  been  sick,  senor?"  broke  from  the  waiter. 
"You  look  —  " 

He  stopped  as  a  galled  sort  of  humor  showed  around  the 
close-set  lips. 

"I  have  merely  been  thinking,"  Serafin  replied  almost 
curtly.  "Yet  you  are  right  —  I  am  sick.  You  never 
have  such  thoughts,  I  suppose  —  the  sort,"  he  said  fiercely, 
"that  makes  your  soul  —  retch?  Eh?" 

"No,  senor,"  the  old  man  whispered,  and  drew  away  a 
little,  as  from  something  repulsive. 

"You  are  lucky,"  was  Serafin's  dry  answer.  "Well  — 
what  do  I  owe  you?" 


The  Next  Corner  323 

The  sum  was  named ;  a  small  one.  Mateo  looked  hope- 
lessly at  the  size  of  the  banknote  that  Serafin  pushed 
toward  him.  "I  could  not  get  change  for  that,  senor, 
without  disturbing  the  owner,  who  has  gone  to  bed." 

"You  need  not  disturb  him.  To-morrow  pay  him  out 
of  it  for  what  I've  had.  What  is  left,  keep  for  yourself. 
And  —  here's  another." 

"Senot so  much !" 

Serafin  had  risen.  He  drew  out  a  suede  coin  purse 
and  emptied  it  on  the  table  of  all  it  contained;  shook  it 
to  be  sure  that  nothing  was  left.  "This  is  yours,  too  — 
now  you  have  all,  to  the  last  peseta." 

The  waiter  was  looking  into  the  hollow,  thirsting  eyes 
with  open  alarm. 

"You  have  use  for  the  money,  haven't  you?"  Serafin 
demanded  impatiently,  his  gaze  grimly  upon  the  soiled 
celluloid  collar  and  shirt  front. 

"Oh,  si,  senor  —  but  —  why?" 

"Good,  then  —  for  I  have  not !"  came  quickly  in  answer, 
with  a  simplicity  that  was  conclusive,  as  he  picked  up  his 
hat.  His  tall,  thin  body,  stiffly  erect,  he  went  with  an  im- 
pressive directness  from  the  room  into  the  darkness. 

Mateo  remained  inept  and  unhappy.  Anything  that 
varied  from  the  day's  routine  had  a  tendency  to  addle  his 
spongy  brain.  Here  was  something  very  different.  And 
he  did  not  like  it.  The  stranger's  eyes,  congested  with 
blood  and  in  the  stillness  of  his  livid  face,  the  heap  of  flour 
dust  on  the  tray  evidence  of  an  impulse  to  freakish 
disorder,  the  money  given  him  —  a  larger  sum  than  he  had 
ever  seen  at  one  time  before  —  the  last  words :  "You 
have  use  for  the  money  —  I  have  not !"  —  he  liked  none 
of  these. 

Without  touching  anything  on  the  table,  he  shuffled 
timidly  to  the  open  door,  expecting  to  make  out,  perhaps, 
the  figure  of  the  unsettling  visitor  on  the  road  and  headed 
for  the  town.  When,  instead,  he  saw  him  going  up  a  near 
path  and  then,  as  one  familiar  with  the  place,  open  the 
gate  that  led  into  the  large  garden  running  from  the  side 


324  The  Next  Corner 

of  the  house  to  the  back,  his  earlier  disquiet  returned  with 
force. 

Few  people  were  privileged  to  enter  the  garden  that  it 
was  Mateo's  duty  to  keep  locked  because  of  its  money 
value  from  the  owner's  collection  of  animals  and  birds. 
These  were  in  cages  at  distances  among  the  trees :  speci- 
mens of  the  black,  thumbless,  spider  monkey,  —  gorgeous 
beasts  with  black  back,  white  cheeks  and  a  band  of 
reddish- yellow  across  the  forehead;  a  jaguar  with  rosette- 
like  spots,  and  a  tawny  puma ;  aviaries  among  the  vine- 
hung  trees  filled  with  beautifully-colored  cassiques  with 
their  hanging  nests,  starlings,  scarlet  tanagers,  gay 
manikens,  bell  birds,  many  parrakeets  and  macaws 
colored  like  equatorial  sunsets.  Few  even  knew  of  the 
gate,  as  it  was  fashioned  to  seem  a  part  of  the  high  rail- 
ing. This  man,  of  course,  remembered  it  from  his  previ- 
ous acquaintance.  If  he  should  walk  about  there  and 
awaken  the  birds  and  beasts  in  their  cages,  the  noise  on 
the  night  might  disturb  the  owner ! 

With  the  slack  surrender  to  events  that  characterizes 
the  very  old  when  the  day  has  been  overlong  and  a  weight 
on  the  tired  heart,  Mateo  made  a  renunciatory  gesture, 
picked  up  the  money  with  hands  that  shook  as  if  working 
under  a  current  of  electricity,  finished  settling  the  place, 
put  out  the  lights,  and  shuffled  to  his  own  room  under  the 
eaves. 

But  as  he  took  off  the  stale,  daytime  clothes,  he  could 
not  resist  looking  from  the  window  that  gave  on  the  gar- 
den at  the  back.  It  did  not  promise  him  contentment  to 
make  out  in  the  starlight  the  thin,  sloping  shoulders  of 
the  unwelcome  one,  and  that  he  was  seated  on  one  of  the 
central  benches,  his  head  bowed  in  a  contemplation  that 
suggested  permanence. 

"Santisima  Maria,  he  will  stay  there  till  morning  —  be 
seen  —  and  I  will  be  blamed  for  not  locking  the  gate !" 

In  a  flurry  of  helpless  dismay  Mateo  crossed  himself, 
crept  into  his  cot  bed  and  drew  the  quilt  over  his  head. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

SERAFIN,  as  motionless  as  one  of  the  trees  about  him, 
saw  nothing  of  the  garden  while  seeing  much  of  other 
things.  Over  and  over  the  pyramidal  events  of  the  night 
kept  climbing  before  him:  First,  his  joy  on  finding  that 
Maury's  wife  was  with  her  husband  under  false  pretenses, 
having  relied  on  the  letter  failing  to  reach  him.  How 
keenly  and  revivingly  had  this  fact  comeV  to  him  as  the 
bridge  to  success  through  Maury's  favor,  —  a  bridge  to 
be  builded  on  the  wife's  need  of  consideration  from  the 
man  who  had  the  letter  and  who  would  not  give  it  up  to 
her  until  he  stood  securely  in  the  lush  pasture  of  the 
promised  land  to  which  the  bridge  was  to  lead. 

Blackmail?  —  The  word  leaped  into  his  thoughts;  an 
ugly  thing  and  new  to  him.  He  sneered  at  his  innate 
shrinking  from  it.  What  matter?  Had  it  been  success- 
ful, how  easily  the  milk  and  honey  of  satisfied  money-lust 
would  have  removed  its  bitter  taste. 

But  he  had  failed.  After  all  his  shrewd  planning  — 
failed!  As  realization  of  this  drove  like  the  blows  of  a 
handspike  through  the  foundation  of  his  revery,  he  lifted 
his  head  and  looked  straight  before  him  with  the  fatuous, 
incredulous  questioning  that  had  shown  in  his  face  during 
Elsie's  denunciation  of  him.  He  had  found  it  impossible 
to  carry  out  his  intention,  not  because  of  what  she  had 
said ;  no,  not  in  the  least.  His  war  with  life  had  hardened 
his  spirit  so  that  in  most  issues  it  had  the  comfortable 
callousness  of  a  shell.  Her  raging  accusation  had  passed 
over  him  without  penetrating;  dismissed  as  he  listened. 
Not  so  the  something  that  had  come  out  of  her  words  — 
separate  from  her  —  that  had  first  unsettled  and  then  de- 
feated him.  He  had  no  name  for  the  experience  except 
one  that  his  reason  denied,  even  mocked,  —  the  entrance 

325 


326  The  Next  Corner 

of  a  spiritual  force  into  the  struggle  between  them,  and 
on  her  side,  —  for  although  from  instinctive,  unshakable 
reverence  he  frequently  observed  the  outer  forms  of  his 
religion,  he  had  been  a  sceptic  for  many  years,  had  be- 
lieved himself  no  different  from  the  animals  that,  while 
their  hearts  beat,  lived,  and  when  they  ceased  to  beat, 
died  forever. 

And  yet,  this  overwhelming  thing,  to-night ! 

He  sat  with  disturbed  brows,  steeped  in  the  gentle 
silence  through  which  the  stars  watched,  and  tried  to  re- 
member it  all.  There  had  been  no  misty  apparition  from 
the  Unknown,  nor  had  his  ears  in  the  natural  way  heard 
any  one  speak  save  Maury's  wife  and  himself.  Still  Don 
Arturo  had  been  there  —  had  owned  him,  bent  him,  made 
him  obey. 

"Cease  torturing  her.  Give  her  the  letter  and  put  her 
mind  at  peace.  I  tell  you  to  give  it  to  her.  Give  it  — 
now!"  Don  Arturo  had  said  this. 

Heard  by  an  inner,  unseen  self,  how  his  heart  had 
leaped  to  it !  For  the  first  time  he  had  realized  that 
nothing  so  dies  with  the  dead  as  the  voice.  So  many 
things  can  linger  and  be  met :  a  song  that  had  been  loved, 
a  perfume,  the  individuality  of  handwriting,  a  portrait 
in  which  a  smile  can  seem  to  quiver,  —  but  the  voice,  that 
of  all  things  holds  the  magic  of  personality,  passes  ut- 
terly, can  scarcely  be  remembered,  rarely  becomes  real 
in  the  dreams  that  in  other  ways  can  be  heart-stirring 
revivals  of  the  lost.  But  to-night  the  miracle  had  hap- 
pened. Mystically,  in  every  varying  cadence  of  the  once 
familiar  speech  —  warm-noted  and  impatient,  urbane  yet 
disdainful  —  the  young  marques  had  been  alive  to  him. 
In  the  familiar  way,  too,  he  had  obeyed  him,  had  gone 
from  Elsie's  presence  empty-handed,  and  with  no  more 
personal  assertiveness  than  a  fallen  leaf  has  in  a  squall. 

The  native  melancholy  of  Spain  intensified  upon  Sera- 
fin.  He  invited  memories,  —  scenes  far  from  this  garden 
of  a  Venezuelan  fonda,  and  of  other  times,  times  far  back. 

He  was  a  child  in  the  old  Basque  farm  on  a  mountain 


The  Next  Corner  327 

top ;  a  place  of  carved  beams,  of  balconies  and  overhang- 
ing roof ;  with  cattle  on  the  ground  floor ;  the  first  story, 
where  the  family  lived  and  his  mother  sewed,  reached  by 
an  outside  staircase.  His  mother !  —  strong  and  fierce 
and  true,  with  bared  arms  like  a  smithy's  and  black  eyes 
with  the  steadiness  of  watch  fires !  Sewing  had  been  the 
smallest  part  of  her  work.  She  had  walked  beside  his 
father  as  a  lioness  beside  her  mate.  She  had  toiled  with 
him,  digging  in  the  fields,  bearing  an  equal  burden  of  the 
harvest ;  and  often,  alone,  she  had  taken  cattle  to  market 
at  daybreak  over  twenty  miles  of  mountain  road,  return- 
ing at  night  without  a  sign  of  fatigue  on  her  calm,  brown 
face.  She  could  not  write  her  name,  yet  as  he  had  hung 
about  her  knees,  she  had  told  him  stories,  handed  down  by 
tradition,  of  his  ancestry  founded  far  back  amongst  the 
ancient  Libyans.  And  always  she  had  spoken  the  pure 
Basque,  so  proud  of  her  race  she  treasured  its  spirit 
against  modern  Spanish  confusions  and  corruptions  as  a 
mother  eagle  with  domed  wings  and  open  beak  guards 
her  nest  from  attack. 

One  Spaniard,  at  least,  she  had  violently  loved,  —  the 
child  she  had  nursed,  the  foster  brother  she  had  given  to 
her  son.  The  difference  made  by  class  had  hardly  existed 
between  this  boy  and  himself  in  childhood  during  the  va- 
cations when  Arturo  had  come  on  long  visits  to  his  ama. 
What  comrades  they  two  had  been !  —  climbing  together, 
fishing,  giggling  secretly  as  they  knelt  closely  side  by 
side  during  the  solemn  masses  they  had  been  forced  to 
attend,  going  mad  with  boys'  joy  in  the  primitive  dances 
of  the  mountains  during  the  sowing  and  vintage  fesias. 

One  memory  came  with  such  clearness  of  characteristic 
detail  his  soul  grew  sick  with  a  craving  to  go  back.  This 
showed  him  an  autumn  and  winter  when  Arturo  was  four- 
teen. He  had  not  been  strong  for  months  previous,  and 
the  marquesa,  his  mother,  terrified  by  the  cough  that  had 
troubled  her  idol,  had  sent  him  away  from  Burgos  and 
tutors  to  the  dry,  fine  air  of  his  ama's  farm  and  a  long 
playtime  outdoors  with  his  foster  brother.  In  the  gayest 


328  The  Next  Corner 

way  Arturo  had  tried  to  become  a  Basque  peasant;  had 
worn  a  red  boina  like  Serafin's  own  and,  when  frost  came, 
a  veritable  mountaineer's  zamarra  —  the  full,  loose  jacket 
made  of  curly  astrachan  from  year-old  lambs  reared  in 
Andalusia,  the  black  wool  on  the  outside.  But  the  clothes 
could  not  make  him  a  rustic.  The  rakish  scarlet  cap  had 
only  intensified  the  exquisite  chiselling  of  his  face;  nor 
could  the  bulky  zamarra  alter  in  the  slightest  the  distinc- 
tion and  delicacy  of  his  bearing.  "Beautiful  as  an  angel," 
the  nurse-mother  had  said  when  she  saw  these  for  the 
first  time  on  the  luminous-eyed,  pale  boy  from  the  city 
palace  that  even  then  knew  the  pinch  of  poverty,  was 
never  heated  enough,  always  damp. 

Serafin  lifted  his  head  a  little.  He  did  not  look  at  the 
ghostly  pattern  of  the  mountains,  or  the  host  of  stars. 
He  was  still  racing  with  Arturo  up  the  breeze-blown 
heights  though  the  while  with  dual  sense  he  stood  beside 
the  mildewed  tomb  in  the  crypt  that  held  his  body,  a 
bullet  in  the  heart.  —  And  he  saw  his  mother,  young, 
swift-moving,  with  sheaves  of  wheat  heaped  on  her  power- 
ful shoulders,  looking  like  Ruth  the  gleaner  —  yet  side  by 
side  with  the  picture,  saw  her  as  she  was  now,  a  widow 
and  very  old,  knitting  before  his  sister's  fire,  her  grand- 
children listening  as  he  had  done  to  tales  of  the  times  when 
to  be  a  Basque  was  to  be  authoritative  and  noble,  clean 
and  true  in  the  fierce  way  of  the  noonday  sun. 

He  would  never  see  his  mother  again.  And  Arturo  was 
dead. 

Still  he  looked  into  the  darkness.  Suppose  this  life 
were  not  the  end  of  life?  To  him,  an  unbeliever,  Arturo 
had  spoken  that  night.  And  yet  —  was  this  possible? 
If  he  could  be  sure,  what  a  difference  this  might  make, 
what  strength  might  come  of  it  to  him  with  which  to  be- 
gin again  —  even  now  —  and  this  time  his  fight  to  live 
be  the  simple  and  honorable  thing  that  his  mother  had 
tried  to  make  a  part  of  him.  .  .  .  If  he  could  be  sure ! 
.  .  .  He  sat  intensely  still  for  hours,  waiting  for  a  sign. 

The  air,  heavy  and  warm  all  night,  was   freshening 


The  Next  Corner  329 

toward  morning  when  he  became  conscious  of  the  most 
intense  fatigue  and  with  it  a  disinclination  to  take  one 
step  into  any  sort  of  future.  Hearts  can  wear  out  except 
as  machines,  though  bodies  move  normally  through  the 
day's  work.  What  place  was  there  for  a  lonely  penni- 
less man  —  with  a  dead  heart  —  one  who  had  been 
evil-living  while  recognizing  in  himself  many  qualities 
that  should  have  made  for  good?  If  he  could  be  sure  that 
life  —  some  sort  of  life  —  something  —  endured,  even 
when  worn-out  hearts  had  changed  to  ice-cold  weights ! 
His  lips  moved  without  sound  a  few  times.  At  last  he 
spoke : 

"Tell  me!"  he  said  in  an  imploring  whisper.  "Speak 
to  me  again,  and  I  will  know,  —  senor!  ..." 

He  waited  a  long  while.     There  was  only  the  stillness. 

"Some  sign !"  he  prayed.  "If  I  were  not  made  fanciful 
by  desperation  and  disappointment,  and  you  were  with 
me  to-night,  come  to  me  again.  Renew  my  strength. 
Speak  to  me !" 

The  stillness  seemed  to  grow  deeper ;  grew  so  impact  he 
felt  it  press  against  him  as  an  obstacle.  The  first  edge 
of  what  was  to  be  daylight  showed  in  the  east  —  drab, 
dour,  hopeless.  He  waited  until  where  he  sat  became  the 
ghost  of  a  garden^  the  heavy-headed  trees  creeping  into 
sight  as  a  solid  black  without  branch  filigree,  the  plants 
a  smoked-green  bulk  with  the  bars  of  the  metal  cages  upon 
them  like  flickering  ribbons  of  silver. 

A  sigh  went  heavily  through  Serafin.  He  drew  some- 
thing from  his  pocket. 

Later  —  perhaps  five  minutes  —  Mateo's  sparsely- 
haired  head  jolted  up  from  its  pillow.  The  gloom  out- 
side the  open  window,  faintly  curdled  with  a  leaden  tone, 
was  full  of  affrighting  noise  —  whining  howls  from  the 
jaguars,  a  crepitation  of  monkey  barks  and  screams,  a 
flapping  of  imprisoned  wings  joined  to  frantic  croakings, 
squawks,  trills  and  chirpings.  Even  through  his  sleep 
of  sodden  fatigue  these  animal  sounds  —  a  charivari  of 
terror  —  had  reached  him. 


330  The  Next  Corner 

"The  pests  have  awakened  me,"  Mateo  thought,  when, 
after  hearing  the  owner  stirring  in  alarm  below,  he  began 
rapidly  to  put  some  clothes  on,  "but  —  merciful  Dios  — 
Cristo!  —  what  was  it  that  awakened  them?" 

He  knew  the  reason  darkly,  within  himself,  before  he 
joined  his  half-dressed,  snarling  employer  who  carried 
a  lantern  and  stepped  with  him  into  the  garden.  His 
expectation  became  certainty  as  he  came  down  the  path 
and  saw  the  strange  man  still  on  the  central  bench,  still 
with  his  sloping  shoulders  bent,  but  with  a  stiffness  and 
stillness  about  them  now  that  made  him  seem  an  effigy. 
He  could  not  touch  him. 

It  was  the  owner  who  went  to  face  the  intruder,  grasped 
his  arm  in  frenzy,  gave  the  pendent  head  a  rough  push 
upward,  —  and  then  crossed  himself. 

The  animals  and  birds  had  quieted,  and  the  hum  of  a 
heavy  touring  car  was  heard  in  the  distance,  coming 
toward  the  fonda  from  the  direction  that  would  take  it  on 
to  the  town.  Both  men  rushed  out  by  the  gate  and  into 
the  middle  of  the  road.  Here  Mateo  gave  quivering  cries 
of  distress  and  his  master  kept  waving  the  light  in  a  circle 
about  his  head. 

The  motor,  coming  on  at  a  crashing  speed,  was  jerked 
to  a  stop  a  few  feet  from  them.  It  held  Robert  and 
Domingo,  the  mestizo  driving. 

"Senor!  —  Senor!"  the  owner  of  the  fonda  chattered, 
and  then  with  recognition :  "Oh,  Senor  Maury,  help  me  in 
this  trouble.  A  man  has  shot  himself  in  my  garden.  If 
this  becomes  known,  no  one  will  come  to  my  house  for 
months.  It  will  be  a  curse!  I  will  be  ruined.  Help  me 
to  settle  this  quietly,  senor!  You  are  going  to  the  town. 
Will  you  take  me  with  you,  so  that  I  can  get  the  police 
back  with  me  and  move  the  body  before  the  morning?  Oh, 
senor,  I  am  mad,  mad!  Twice  the  fellow  shot,  my  wife 
says,  and  all  my  creatures  made  a  noise  like  Hell  broken 
loose  —  " 

Robert  had  stepped  out.  In  the  lantern  light  and  the 
feeble  grayness  his  face  looked  drawn  and  deathly.  Under 


The  Next  Corner  331 

the  peak  of  his  cap  his  eyes  had  lightened  as  he  followed 
the  man's  chattering  rush  of  words.  He  wore  a  big  yellow 
coat,  heavy  enough  for  winter,  the  collar  drawn  up  high, 
yet  gave  the  impression  of  still  being  cold;  his  right 
hand  was  thrust  into  one  of  its  pockets. 

"Show  me  the  man,"  he  said. 

When  he  stood  before  Olazaba,  whose  head  was  up- 
lifted and  bent  far  back  just  as  the  owner  had  run  from 
it,  and  saw  the  contemptuous  weariness  carved  into  the 
face,  a  strange  change  came  to  his  own,  —  as  of  one 
suddenly  disarmed  by  Authority,  chastened  out  of  his 
own  burning  judgment  to  the  acceptance  of  a  verdict 
including  truths  whose  majesty  belittled  conditions  that 
but  a  moment  before  he  had  felt  to  be  so  momentous. 

The  hand  in  his  pocket  had  the  thong  of  an  old  slave 
whip  wound  about  it.  This  curio  of  other  days  had  been 
nailed  on  the  wall  of  his  room  and  he  had  torn  it  down  on 
leaving  El  Iris.  His  fingers  loosened  on  it ;  left  it.  They 
came  out  tremblingly  and  curved  about  his  chin  as  he 
stood,  hushed,  and  gazed  at  the  dead. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX 

THERE  was  no  need  of  Robert's  continuing  to  Valencia. 
With  the  finding  of  Olazaba  in  the  garden  of  the  fonda 
his  quest  was  ended.  He  sent  the  tallow-faced  and  hastily- 
dressed  proprietor  on  with  Domingo  in  the  car  to  the 
town.  It  was  not  his  int«ntion  to  wait  for  its  return. 
He  would  walk  back  to  El  Iris. 

Before  starting  he  went  into  the  dishevelled  public 
room  and  poured  himself  some  brandy.  Old  Mateo,  too 
distressed  to  stir,  sat  bent  forward  in  a  corner,  his  mouth 
moving  in  a  fumbling  way,  his  long  arms  sagging  be- 
tween his  legs. 

"You  need  a  drink  yourself,"  Robert  said  and  brought 
him  a  small  glass  of  liquor.  "Take  this." 

"Thank  you,  senor,"  he  stuttered. 

After  gulping  it  down,  he  gained  enough  assurance 
to  utter  what  was  in  his  thoughts :  "I  cannot  go  out 

yet,  senoi and  I  do  not  like  to  leave  the  body  alone. 

He  was  kind  to  me,  poor  man  —  very  kind!  Could  you 
stay  near  him,  senor,  until  I  feel  better  and  have  dressed? 
You  see,"  he  went  on  with  an  upward,  sick  look,  "this 
is  not  the  first  dead  man  I  have  seen  —  left  out  in  the 
open.  I  was  through  several  revolutions  here,  senor, 
in  my  youth,  and  saw  some  killing.  —  So  I  do  not  like 
to  leave  the  body  out  there  —  alone.  The  birds  and 
insects  know  at  once  —  they  are  not  afraid  —  they  hurry 
to  the  dead." 

A  grue  went  over  Robert  as  he  took  the  glass  from  the 
fingers  whose  under  trembling  was  incessant.  "Don't 
distress  yourself,  Mateo.  I'll  wait  out  there  for  you. 
Come  when  you  are  ready." 

He  walked  with  inner  unwillingness  to  the  spot.  There 
the  repulsiveness  of  the  thought  put  into  his  mind  by  the 

332 


The  Next  Corner  333 

old  man  deepened  into  a  sickening  sort  of  self-diminu- 
tion. The  swiftness  with  which  the  living  creature, 
arrogant  with  personality,  electric  with  the  mysterious 
forces  of  the  brain  and  the  energies  of  the  blood,  can 
become  waste  material  with  corruption  imminent!  The 
birds  in  clusters  were  already  on  the  lower  branches, 
peering  down  and  chirping  familiarly  at  the  rigid  bulk 
upon  the  bench,  a  lizard  was  moving  with  a  leisureliness 
that  was  horribly  informing  across  the  dead  man's  knee. 

Moisture  stood  on  Robert's  forehead  as  with  his  hand- 
kerchief he  flicked  away  the  thing  that  was  like  a  crawling 
gray  tongue  and  forced  his  fingers  to  draw  the  hat  over 
the  lifted  face,  a  flare  in  the  gray.  As  he  did  this,  and 
began  smoking  and  pacing  on  the  path,  he  heard  above 
him  the  commotion  of  a  flight  of  departing  birds. 

It  was  a  chilling  thing  to  be  wide  awake  and  alone  in 
the  dawn.  He  saw  the  hour  as  grim,  disquieting,  deeply 
sad;  an  anomalous  thing,  like  a  body  with  empty  veins 
into  which  at  last  the  sun  would  pour  as  the  gift  of  blood. 
To  this  came  the  remembrance  of  that  part  of  Elsie's 
story  whose  force  upon  him  had  left  a  scar  —  this  same 
deathly  hour  on  the  mountain  in  Spain,  and  she  there, 
frightened,  heartsick  and  astray,  sent  on  her  forlorn  way 
with  insult  —  cast  out  with  insult !  .  .  . 

He  paused  in  his  pacing  to  look  steadily  at  the  frozen 
burden  on  the  bench.  It  seemed  to  him  justice  —  Mosaic 
justice  —  that  it  was  in  the  dawn  Olazaba  had  pronounced 
life  unbearable.  His  hour  of  Calvary,  too. 

After  this,  with  blood  drumming  in  his  temples,  he  was 
flung  back  in  spirit  to  the  hours  just  passed  with  Elsie. 
He  had  been  a  silent  listener  to  her  story,  as  she  had  made 
him  see  into  every  corner  of  that  secret  house  from  whose 
windows  her  spirit  had  for  so  long  kept  peering  out  in 
fear.  She  had  been  brutal  in  truthfulness.  Without  an 
excuse  for  herself  she  had  shown  one  picture  after  another 
of  her  life  during  the  years  separate  from  him.  While 
moving  in  and  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  big  room  at  El 
Iris,  he  for  the  most  part  sitting  with  his  elbows  on  his 


334  The  Next  Corner 

knees,  and  his  hands  spread  above  his  eyes,  they  had  been 
like  people  between  whom  no  veil  of  reticence  had  been 
left  lowered,  their  stark  selves  face  to  face. 

With  energy  and  exactness  she  had  painted  in  words 
the  man  who  had  first  made  her  aware  of  the  sense  thirst 
in  herself,  remade  her  to  her  own  eyes.  As  reckless  and 
impassioned  the  eonfession  had  rushed  on,  this  man  was 
before  her  again  —  alive  —  and  she  called  him  familiarly 
Arturo. 

In  the  still  room  in  the  dead  hours  of  the  night  she  had 
shown  him  El  Miradero,  a  splash  of  brilliant  color  hang- 
ing against  the  wall  of  drab  mountain,  and  Arturo  coming 
on  a  boyish  run  to  meet  the  mule  coach,  his  velveteen 
jacket  slung  hussar-fashion  over  one  shoulder,  —  while 
without  one  word  of  self-excuse  she  had  told  how  she  had 
loved  him  then.  In  fact,  she  had  poured  out  these  details 
in  an  absorbed  way  as  if  she  had  no  listener  and  were 
talking  to  herself. 

As  she  described  Arturo's  unusualness  in  sheer  beauty, 
his  distinction  and  grace,  of  all  of  which  he  had  ap- 
peared wholly  unconscious,  a  memory  had  swept  against 
Robert.  It  had  been  like  the  brush  of  a  curtain  lifting 
to  disclose  a  small  incident  on  the  day  he  had  sought 
Elsie  at  the  Countess  Longueval's  tea.  As  he  entered 
the  house,  he  had  passed  a  young  man  on  the  steps 
who  was  leaving  it.  A  casual  glance  at  him  had 
instantly  become  speculative  interest.  The  stranger 
had  been  looking  backward  with  a  smile  that  had 
made  his  dark  face  flash  through  a  melancholy 
that  was  like  mist  upon  it,  —  a  wonderful  smile  it  had 
been,  a  blend  of  charmingly  cut  mobile  lips  lifted  chal- 
lengingly,  of  glowing  yet  languid  eyes;  and  with  it  he 
had  called  back  to  some  one  a  good-by  in  Spanish.  This 
Spaniard,  so  clearly  recalled  from  the  one  meeting,  was 
no  other  than  Don  Arturo,  Marques  de  Burgos.  With- 
out speaking  of  the  memory  to  Elsie,  Robert  knew  this 
had  been  the  man. 

He  did  not  interrupt  Elsie  once.    As  she  had  said,  she 


The  Next  Corner  335 

could  not  bear  to  look  at  him  and  had  progressed  with 
her  story  almost  without  pause,  while  pacing  in  the 
shadows,  her  head  for  the  most  part  hanging,  her  hands 
sometimes  coming  together  and  sometimes  flung  wide. 

In  and  out  of  the  pictures  that  she  made  live,  the  man 
known  to  him  as  Olazaba  had  moved  with  subtlety  and 
menace.  She  told  of  the  storm  that  had  seemed  rending 
the  mountains,  her  loneliness  and  fright,  her  sense  of  fate 
in  the  strange  place,  her  surrender  to  Arturo's  pleading. 
He  saw  her,  as  her  first  step  on  the  new  path,  writing  the 
letter  of  farewell.  He  saw  Serafin  receiving  this  from 
his  master  to  be  given  to  Eduardo  to  carry  down  the 
mountain;  saw  her  stand  in  silence  until  the  ring  of  the 
donkey's  hoofs  from  the  stony  road  had  made  her  sure 
that  he  had  gone,  —  and  with  him  her  old  life. 

Of  the  murder  she  said  little.  A  few  shuddering  phrases 
were  enough  to  show  him  herself,  an  alien,  understanding 
little  of  the  storm  of  words  between  her  lover  and  the 
man  who  had  come  to  make  him  pay,  —  then  the  demo- 
lition of  her  world.  And  after  the  shock,  the  grief.  Here, 
too,  she  had  almost  no  words. 

And  the  sequel  to  El  Miradero :  Julie's  home  in  Paris 
where  Elsie  had  crept  back  to  consider  the  fading  nega- 
tive of  her  future;  the  war  that  had  made  her  one  of  the 
demented  crowds  speeding  homeward;  the  lie  to  him  in 
New  York  made  possible  by  opportunity.  He  saw  all  this. 

"I  did  not  deceive  you  in  New  York  about  the  letter 
in  order  to  make  life  easy  for  myself,"  she  had  said  with 
a  straight  sort  of  simplicity  and  without  force.  "I  was 
not  as  cheap  as  that.  I  came  away  with  you  to  accom- 
plish just  one  thing  —  to  get  the  letter  and  so  keep  you 
from  pain  and  shock  that  had  become  needless.  I  did  not 
love  you  then,  I  thought  I  never  would.  Once  I  had  the 
letter,  I  meant  to  go  away,  making  the  terms  of  our  agree- 
ment the  excuse.  My  inner  life  here  was  hideous  —  oh, 
one  long  dread !  No  wonder  Selena  suspected  me.  I  lived 
in  security  only  from  hour  to  hour.  I  hated  the  day. 
All  the  day  I  would  feel  myself  a  hypocrite,  goaded  by  the 


336  The  Next  Corner 

fear  that  by  some  chance  outside  my  control  the  letter 
would  reach  you,  that  at  any  moment  I  might  see  it  come 
into  your  hands,  see  you  open  it,  and  have  to  endure  your 
—  well,  perhaps  your  contempt.  I  loved  the  nights  — 
there  was  no  danger  in  the  nights.  With  the  first  rays  of 
morning  through  the  slits  of  the  shutters,  my  torture 
began  again  —  constant,  unrelenting  apprehension !" 

There  had  been  a  long  pause  after  this. 

"Although  I  made  this  struggle  to  keep  you  from  ever 
knowing  how  I  had  given  you  up,  I  did  not  think  that  I 
loved  you  at  all  in  those  first  months.  I  kept  dreaming 
of  Arturo.  Life  was  a  cloud  and  I  moved  in  it,  seeing 
him.  He  had  worn  a  beautiful,  ancient  ring  with  his 
family's  crest  on  it  —  it  had  sealed  my  letter  to  you. 
Afterward  he  gave  it  to  me  as  a  pledge,  and  until  one  day 
last  February  I  wore  it  inside  my  dress.  —  A  revelation 
about  him  reached  me  then  —  all  about  his  sort  of  life 
and  why  he  was  killed.  It  came  in  a  newspaper  account 
that  my  mother  sent.  It  changed  me!" 

In  a  few  phrases  she  had  given  him  the  story  of  Ascun- 
cion  with  the  corroding  knowledge  it  had  brought  of  Ar- 
turo. 

"And  I  saw  that  instead  of  having  been  the  one  woman 
to  him,  loved  deeply,  I  had  only  been  one  in  a  procession 
of  women." 

There  was  a  frozen  sort  of  stillness.  She  broke  it  with 
a  low  yet  piercing  question :  "There  isn't  any  need  for  the 
rest  —  is  there?"  Before  he  could  look  up  or  answer  she 
had  continued :  "I'm  different  to  you,  forever.  That's  only 
what  I  can  expect.  —  Well,  I  thought  that  after  all  these 
months  the  letter  had  been  lost  in  some  way.  I  told  myself 
this  every  day.  At  last  I  felt  absolutely  sure  of  it.  —  And 
then  to-night  —  when  I  looked  into  Olazaba's  face  —  a 
stranger's  face  —  I  was  looking  at  Serafin.  ...  I  almost 
died.  .  .  .  He  showed  me  the  letter  before  dinner.  He 
threatened  to  hand  it  to  you  at  once  unless  I  kept  quiet 
about  him  and  gave  him  a  chance  to  explain.  .  .  .  The 
chance  came  when  you  went  to  the  Morenos.  .  .  .  He  said 


The  Next  Corner  337 

then  that  unless  I  kept  silent  about  having  known  him  in 
Europe  in  the  way  I  did  and  would  let  him  go  to  New 
York  with  us  to  be  introduced  by  you  to  your  business 
people,  he  would  hand  you  the  letter  while  saying  that  in 
Paris  I  had  been  —  the  mistress  of  the  marques  —  though 
he  must  have  known,  from  having  to  cheat  me  to  get  me 
alone  at  El  Miradero  with  his  master,  that  this  was  a  lie ! 

—  Well,  I  refused  —  and  felt  that  nothing  would  save  me 

—  that  you  would  read  the  letter  I  had  come  to  hate, 
before  I  could  tell  you  all  this  in  my  own  way,  as  I  meant 
surely  to  do    .    .    . " 

Her  voice  had  trailed  off  here,  had  become  thin  and 
wondering:  "It  was  a  strange  experience.  I  will  never 
understand  it  —  suddenly  he  gave  me  the  letter  and 
rushed  out.  He  gave  it,"  she  said  in  a  thrilling  sort  of 
whisper.  "What  I  had  prayed  for  so  hopelessly  was  — 
mine." 

Robert  recalled  that  after  this  his  consciousness  had 
suddenly  concentrated  upon  one  picture.  With  it,  the 
entrance  into  him  of  a  longing  at  white  heat  was  like  that 
of  an  animal  with  claws,  seizing  only  the  memory  of 
Elsie's  hours  at  El  Miradero  after  the  murder,  where 
Olazaba  with  the  letter  secretly  in  his  possession  had  put 
the  consummate  edge  to  her  pain.  When  to  this  was  added 
thought  of  him  as  a  buzzard  who  having  long  ago  pre- 
pared his  chance  had  come  to-night  to  take  advantage  of 
it,  the  whole  made  an  offense  so  beyond  the  pale  of  the 
most  ordinary  decency,  it  had  swept  him  to  his  feet  — 
wild  —  compelled  to  one  sort  of  action. 

How  he  had  gone  from  Elsie  with  only  a  blurted  phrase 
that  he  would  soon  be  back,  and  how  he  had  left  the  house 
with  Domingo,  he  did  not  remember  clearly.  The  rage 
to  kill  was  upon  him  and  he  hurried  to  satisfy  it.  The 
obsession  had  been  frightful.  And  yet  — !  As  he  walked 
the  path  before  Olazaba's  dead  body,  a  new  knowledge  of 
himself  grew  as  he  realized  the  care  with  which  his  mind 
had  kept  him  from  a  crime;  how  reason,  lucid  and  cold 
through  all  his  turmoil,  had  made  him  leave  his  pistol  be- 


338  The  Next  Corner 

hind  him,  and  instead  had  put  into  his  hand  the  slave 
whip.  To  wound  and  hurt,  to  abase  this  man  that  he  had 
suddenly  come  to  loathe  with  a  fury  he  had  not  dreamed 
possible  to  his  nature,  to  make  him  cringe  on  the  ground 
with  cries  of  pain  as  victims  had  often  done  under  this 
lash,  whose  history  as  he  knew  had  been  a  frightful  one,  — 
this  had  promised  primitive  satisfaction  side  by  side  with 
an  under  determination  not  to  wreck  himself  for  the  crea- 
ture he  held  in  contempt. 

And  even  what  he  had  planned  had  been  needless.  His 
hands  were  empty  and  his  soul  lightened. 

There  was  a  look  of  age  on  Robert's  face.  A  transient 
blight  from  the  years  ahead  had  picked  out  hollows  in  his 
cheeks,  given  his  eyes  emptiness  with  the  bright  weariness 
that  comes  of  lack  of  sleep.  And  now,  on  the  leap  of  a 
second,  remembrance  of  Elsie  began  to  prod  him.  He 
wanted  Mateo  to  appear  so  that  he  could  start  for  El 
Iris  and  finish  with  her.  Finish? —  The  word  was  a 
crooked  pull  upon  his  nerves.  Finish?  .  .  .  How  —  since 
he  had  not  previsaged  at  all  in  what  words  he  would  meet 
the  issue  in  their  lives? 

From  the  time  he  had  left  home  his  rage  against  Ola- 
zaba  had  blurred  everything  else.  When  he  tried  to  realize 
that  but  for  a  fortuitous  tragedy  Elsie  would  have  left 
him  for  another  man  and  without  ever  another  sight  of 
him,  he  could  not  make  himself  know  it.  He  could  not 
even  become  familiar  with  it  in  trying  to  know  it.  The 
thought  was  in  him,  stupidly,  rubbed  in  with  the  most 
intense  sadness  and  with  the  shudder  that  goes  into  a 
look  back  at  some  mortal  danger  barely  escaped.  And 
yet  —  how  could  it  be  true? 

He  was  only  a  few  yards  from  Olazaba's  body,  and  at 
the  top  of  the  path  in  view  of  the  gate  that  in  the  excite- 
ment of  his  entrance  had  been  left  open.  He  was  stand- 
ing with  the  look  of  a  jaded  man,  his  back  to  a  tree,  his 
chin  buried  in  the  high  coat  collar,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 
While  he  waited  so  for  Mateo  the  dull  drumming  of  the 
one  thought  did  not  stop  in  his  aching  brain:  It  was 


The  Next  Corner  339 

true.  He  knew  it  was  true.  He  must  get  used  to  it. 
Once  he  could  grasp  himself  as  the  man,  Elsie  the  woman, 
in  the  group  of  pictures  melting  one  into  the  other  before 
memory,  the  matter  would  simplify  and  he  could  deal  with 
it  sanely,  —  oh,  very  sanely  and  generously.  He  knew 
he  would  do  this  when  he  could  really  take  it  in  as  the 
truth  that  he  knew  it  was. 

The  rush  of  a  light  car  past  the  open  garden  gate  in 
the  direction  of  Valencia  made  him  look  up,  too  late  to 
see  it.  And  then,  his  aroused  attention  drawn  to  another 
descent  of  the  audacious  birds  to  points  near  the  bench 
with  the  body,  he  returned  to  it  with  a  deliberately  dis- 
turbing trudge  that  brought  alarmed  chirps  and  a  flutter- 
ing retreat. 

From  this  he  went  on  in  the  direction  he  faced  until  the 
house  was  reached,  its  door  flung  back.  And  here  he 
called  for  Mateo. 

The  old  man's  voice  came  feebly  and  desolately  in 
answer:  "I  cannot  go  yet,  senor  —  the  senora  is  much 
upset  and  needs  me  here.  Ay-el  Dios  —  But  please  do 
not  wait  any  longer.  The  others  will  come  soon  now." 

"Very  good.     Then  I  will  go,"  Robert  called. 

He  turned  from  the  house  to  see  Elsie,  not  twenty  yards 
from  him.  With  Candida  beside  her  she  was  almost  di- 
rectly in  front  of  Olazaba's  body. 


CHAPTER   XL 

SHE  was  different  from  the  memory  he  had  of  her  where 
she  moved  nervously  at  one  side  of  the  ineffectively  lighted 
room  and  in  the  severe  gown  she  had  put  on  for  traveling. 
An  unfamiliar  cloak  of  cobweb  gray  and  a  black  mantilla 
brought  almost  an  alien  impression  with  which  the  pallid 
light,  the  fantastic  garden  and  the  look  on  her  face  were 
rightfully  a  part.  Most  of  all  her  face,  —  so  bloodless 
it  was  more  ashen  than  white,  her  mouth  open  in  a  look 
of  sickness.  The  first  glance  showed  him  that  but  for 
Candida's  arms  about  her  she  would  have  sunk  to  her 
knees. 

As  he  hurried  to  her,  her  gaze  seemed  to  seize  him,  left 
it  to  move  stiffly  to  Olazaba's  copper-hued  left  hand  lying 
palm  upward  on  his  knee  with  the  curved  fingers  open  and 
more  than  ever  like  claws  in  their  rigor,  then  back  again 
to  him. 

"You — ?"  quivered  on  a  breath  as  he  reached  her,  the 
most  deadly  fear  in  it. 

"No,  my  dear,  no,"  Robert  said  and  took  her  from 
Candida,  feeling  the  upheaving  shudder  from  her  body 
dart  through  his  own.  "He  shot  himself.  He  was  here 
—  alone." 

In  the  relief  her  head  sank  against  him,  the  eyes  closed 
as  if  she  had  fallen  suddenly  into  sleep.  He  led  her  down 
a  path  out  of  sight  of  the  body  to  a  bench  there,  and  sat 
beside  her.  She  was  watching  him  now ;  waiting. 

"I  was  passing  in  the  car,  going  to  find  Olazaba  in 
Valencia,"  Robert  said  in  answer  to  the  look,  "when  the 
man  who  owns  this  place  called  me  in  from  the  road  to 
help.  I  found  Olazaba  as  you  saw  him.  —  You  are  sick 
with  fright!" 

"Oh,  yes!  When  I  was  told  that  you'd  gone,"  she 

340 


The  Next  Corner  341 

stuttered,  "I  went  to  your  room  and  looked  for  your 
pistol.  I  couldn't  find  it  —  and  so  —  I  thought  — !  — 
Oh,  I  couldn't  bear  what  I  thought  —  it  made  me  insane. 
I  had  to  come  out,  follow  you,  try  to  find  you  in  time  — 
I  was  terrified!" 

"I'm  sorry.  I  should  have  gone  to  you  before  I  left 
and  told  you  that  I  was  taking  only  that  old  whip  that 
was  on  my  wall." 

As  she  fumblingly  lifted  her  handkerchief,  he  took  it 
from  her  and  with  careful  touches  wiped  her  face  that 
had  the  look  of  marble  sweating. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  urged.  "There's  nothing  to 
fear.  You  understand?  —  there's  nothing  to  connect  me 
—  us  —  with  this  at  all.  I  was  passing,  called  in,  and 
recognized  the  suicide  as  an  acquaintance.  That's  all. 
It's  finished."  He  looked  at  his  watch  and  stood  up. 
"You  came  in  your  car?" 

"Yes." 

"We'll  go  back  now.  The  police  will  be  here  in  a  few 
moments.  I'd  rather  they  didn't  see  you.  I'll  drive  you 
home.  Candida  can  walk.  No  one  need  know  you  came 
here  with  her.  Come,  Elsie." 

Robert  had  done  these  things  in  a  comforting  way,  said 
these  words  in  tones  that  were  deeply  kind.  This  quality 
reached  through  Elsie's  numbness,  made  its  impression  on 
her,  —  his  kindness. 

During  the  almost  silent  return  to  the  house  and  to 
her  bedroom,  where  he  lighted  a  heap  of  dry  bark  on  the 
hearth,  she  was  still  quietly,  resignedly  aware  of  his  com- 
passionate consideration.  She  had  sense  of  nothing  but 
this  from  him.  Nothing  less  nor  more.  She  acknowl- 
edged it  as  she  sat  before  the  blaze,  her  chilled  hands  held 
out  to  it. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said  in  a  soft,  drifting  way 
and  without  looking  at  him. 

Robert  winced  from  the  word.  It  set  the  situation 
between  them  jangling  like  a  damaged  clock  trying  to 
strike.  The  need  of  decision  came  throbbing  out  of  the 


342  The  Next  Corner 

confusion  in  him.  Still,  knowing  this,  a  longing- 
persisted  to  postpone  any  further  consideration  of  their 
new  attitude.  It  was  the  weariness  of  a  man  recovering 
from  sickness  to  whom  the  thought  of  resumption  of  initia- 
tive is  dreary. 

He  bent  over  Elsie,  smoothed  her  hair.  "Will  you  try 
to  sleep  now?"  As  instead  of  replying,  her  face  went  down 
into  her  open  hands,  he  spoke  again  persuasively: 
"We  are  both  so  tired.  After  a  rest  we  can  — " 

She  shook  her  head,  lifted  it  sharply  and  turned  side- 
ways to  look  up  at  him.  "I  want  to  say  one  thing  to  you 
first.  One  thing  must  be  settled  before  there's  any  rest 
for  me."  She  pointed  to  a  chair  facing  her. 

Robert  sat  down  willingly  but  with  a  sensation  as  if 
his  heart  were  only  half  alive.  He  had  a  desire  to  speak, 
without  clear  knowledge  of  how  to  begin ;  a  consciousness 
of  the  something  vital  needing  to  be  said  that  yet  kept 
slipping  from  him  and  that  his  lassitude  shirked  from 
following.  Elsie,  instead,  had  become  suddenly  vibrant. 
Childish  in  look  and  air,  weak  and  pale,  a  purpose  had 
appeared  in  her  that  was  like  the  electric  spark  he  had 
often  seen  run  along  exposed  wires. 

The  instant's  silence  between  them  had  the  weightiness 
that  precedes  the  passing  of  a  sentence.  The  house  was 
absolutely  still,  filled  with  a  great  loneliness.  From  the 
patio  the  early  morning  glamour  came;  it  was  changing 
to  a  tawny  glitter  on  the  red  roofs,  to  gold  glints  in  the 
trees,  and  seemed  a  fresh-faced,  inquisitive  new-comer  look- 
ing in  at  them. 

"I  want  to  get  away,  Robert,"  Elsie  said,  her  voice 
hard,  yet  with  a  quiver  through  it.  "I  don't  want  to 
wait  to  go  home  with  you.  I  want  to  be  by  myself  — 
go  to-morrow." 

He  frowned  moodily,  as  if  trying  to  take  in  her  words. 

"It's  the  only  thing  possible.  I  don't  want  to  stay 
here  —  not  for  another  day !" 

"Why  not?"     This  was  honest,  dull  wonder. 

"Can't  —  that's  all." 


The  Next  Corner  343 

She  stood  up,  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
After  a  silence  she  turned,  remaining  standing  with  her 
back  to  the  light. 

"This  is  a  trouble,"  she  said  passionately,  "where  all 
the  blame  rests  on  one  —  on  me.  I  can't  endure  the 
weight  of  it  —  and  be  with  you." 

"This  is  foolish,  Elsie,"  he  said  very  wistfully,  though 
still  in  the  voice  that  told  of  his  tired  heart.  "Your  place 
is  with  me.  I  want  you  with  me." 

A  flash  of  misery  went  over  her  face.  "I  know.  You 
are  thinking  of  what  the  doctor  told  you.  You  are  being 
—  merciful  —  to  a  woman  you  no  longer  care  about."  At 
his  startled  look  and  attempt  to  speak  she  made  a  des- 
perate gesture  with  her  clasped  hands,  silencing  him. 
"This  is  what  I  felt  sure  would  happen  if  you  ever  found 
out  about  El  Miradero  —  what  I  had  meant  to  do.  I 
would  become  different  —  as  I  have.  You  can't  help  this. 
You  think  that  in  the  first  place  I  proved  I  was  the  wrong 
sort  of  woman  —  one  of  the  fools  weak  and  unmoral  who 
are  useless,  just  cumber  the  earth  —  the  sort  that  by  your 
nature  is  offensive  to  you.  And  all  the  contemptible  things 
that  had  to  go  into  my  struggle  to  keep  what  I  had  done  a 
secret  from  you  —  these,  too,  you  detest.  You  are  that 
sort  of  man." 

She  came  a  little  nearer  to  him,  her  head  bent  back, 
her  drooped  eyes  studying  him,  and  he  saw  the  same  twi- 
light sort  of  sadness  about  her  that  had  been  there  during 
the  first  months  of  their  life  at  El  Iris.  It  was  clear 
that  her  calm  edged  wild  tears,  and  though  the  torpor 
within  him  was  relaxing,  the  nerves  that  had  seemed 
sucked  dry  beginning  to  quicken  again,  he  let  her  pour 
out  the  thoughts  choking  her.  An  instinct  came  to 
him  that  through  Elsie's  vision  he  might  come  clearly  to 
see  his  own. 

She  misinterpreted  his  look  of  waiting.  She  had  ex- 
pected to  fight  some  opposition  from  him  because  of  the 
impassioned  fatherhood  that  was  in  his  feeling  for  her. 
She  had  been  wrong.  He  would  easily  let  her  slip  away. 


344  The  Next  Corner 

A  freakish  memory  assailed  her  of  frocks  that  in  the 
past  had  been  spoiled;  not  those  whose  stains  had  easily 
been  washed  out  and  rents  mended,  —  but  others  that 
from  unexpected  nails  protruding,  or  sudden  fire,  had 
gone  beyond  reconstruction.  The  future  with  Robert  ap- 
peared much  like  those  burned  and  torn  little  frocks, 
jaggedly  uneven  and  charred  beyond  remedy. 

"I  can  tell  that  you  are  ready  to  make  what  excuse 
you  can  for  me,"  she  said,  her  lips  cinder-dry.  "I  know 
you  pity  me,  and  I  don't  want  pity.  You  forgive  me. 
That  helps  me,  but  it  isn't  what  I  want.  I  can  never  have 
what  I  want  any  more.  I  know  this,  and  I've  accepted  it. 
—  I'll  telegraph  my  mother,"  she  added  with  decision. 
"She  can  meet  me." 

"And  after  that?"  Robert  asked,  almost,  it  seemed  to 
her,  in  the  tone  of  a  bystander.  His  chin  was  resting 
on  his  clasped  hands,  his  eyes  lowered. 

"I  don't  know.  We  —  can  see."  She  paused  and  spoke 
more  decidedly.  "This  has  really  changed  everything. 
Don't  let  us  keep  making  the  best  of  a  failure !  Somehow 
I  could  manage  to  set  you  free." 

He  looked  up  at  her  then,  a  restrained  though  violent 
look.  It  rested  on  her  for  a  long  pause,  took  in  her 
fragility  that  had  likeness  to  a  lamp,  luminous  from  a 
flame  within ;  her  desperate  desire  to  be  self-sufficient ;  her 
ineffectualness.  The  deadness  went  out  of  him,  his  sinews 
hardened.  He  stood  up,  went  straight  to  her  and  took 
her  into  his  arms. 

"How  could  you  set  me  free?"  he  asked. 

She  held  back  from  him.  "I  could  —  if  you  couldn't 
care  for  me.  Don't  be  sorry  for  me!  See  what's  right 
for  yourself !" 

"But  I  love  you,"  said  Robert  simply. 

"Don't  —  lie !"  she  begged  and  still  drew  away  from 
him. 

"I  love  you,  and  you  couldn't  set  me  free.  You  might 
leave  me,  and  I  might  never  see  you  again.  And  you 
would  always  be  with  me  —  a  thirst."  He  held  her  to 


The  Next  Corner  345 

him  frantically,  bent  her  head  back  and  kissed  her  on 
the  mouth,  long,  enervating  kisses.  "I  not  only  cherish 
you  with  sweetness,"  he  said,  his  tone  wrung,  "as  my  wife 
who  is  to  give  me  a  child  —  I  am  on  fire  with  love  for 
you!" 

She  had  no  words  then;  could  only  keep  looking  into 
his  eyes  with  their  burning  and  tenderness. 

"Life  without  you?  As  you  spoke  I  saw  it  —  parched, 
famished,  dreadful.  Now  listen  to  me.  —  I  lost  you  once. 
I  lost  your  love  when  you  were  in  Paris  because  I  hadn't 
known  how  to  keep  it.  But  tell  me  —  from  your  soul  — 
one  thing:  If  you  had  loved  me  then  as  you  have  these 
months  here  —  could  you  have  forgotten  me?"  His  lips 
were  close  to  hers  again.  "Could  you?" 

"Robert  — "  she  faltered.  Her  eyes  were  wild  and 
soft,  her  slender  arms  around  his  neck,  as  she  held  to 
him,  had  a  cable's  strength.  "Oh,  Robert  —  no !" 

"The  blame  is  mine,"  he  said. 

"You  trusted  me,"  Elsie  found  strength  to  say  with 
self-reproach.  "You  trusted  me  so  absolutely !" 

"To  the  trust  of  a  man  there  should  always  be  added  the 
pull  on  a  woman's  heart-strings.  I  was  as  far  from  your 
heart  as  I  was  from  your  life." 

"But  I  should  have  told  you  —  I  should  have  been 
frank  with  you  before  I  went  back  to  you,  Robert.  I 
tried  to  —  and  I  couldn't.  I  have  lived  with  you  here  — 
thinking  of  this  secret  all  the  time." 

"Perfect  frankness  is  a  lovely  thing  because  it's  brave. 
Still,  I've  never  thought  confession  always  necessary. 
Often  it's  a  mistake.  I  understand  how  you  shrank  from 
it  and  felt  that  your  sincerity  for  what  lay  ahead  of  us 
justified  you  in  hiding  it  in  your  own  self." 

As  with  deepening  consciousness  of  her  charm  for  him 
and  his  need  of  her,  he  again  flooded  her  with  caresses, 
he  kept  whispering  with  a  sort  of  anguish:  "My  loved 
one  —  my  very  breath!  Oh,  Elsie,  without  you?  — 
Dearest !" 

She  drew  him  back  to  the  chair,  made  him  sit  down 


346  The  Next  Corner 

and  knelt  beside  him.  For  a  little  while  she  remained 
with  her  elbows  on  his  knees,  looking  into  his  eyes  whose 
heaviness  had  been  replaced  by  a  glitter  like  that  from  the 
sea. 

"Well?"  he  asked.  The  something  so  young  in  him 
laughed  out.  "What's  put  a  tuck  in  your  forehead  now? 
What's  bothering  you?" 

"It's  —  the  letter."     She  looked  anxiously  at  him. 

He  frowned  with  a  remembering  look  and  drew  it  from 
the  pocket  of  his  dinner  coat.  "I  forgot  that  I  had  it," 
and  he  put  it  into  her  hand.  "Burn  it." 

Reminiscence,  a  shadow,  had  fallen  on  Elsie's  face  as 
she  studied  the  writing  on  the  gray-blue  envelope.  When 
she  looked  up,  still  leaning  against  Robert,  she  searched 
his  eyes,  her  own  limpid,  honest. 

"I  want  to  be  so  square  with  you,"  she  cried,  almost 
an  angry  enthusiasm  sweeping  over  her.  "I'm  wondering 
if  you  quite  realize  that  if  you'd  read  this  you'd  have 
believed  I'd  been  really  unfaithful  —  that  it  was  Fate 
that  changed  all  —  no  credit  to  me?"  The  words  were 
hurting  her,  she  had  to  force  them  from  her  lips.  "Robert, 
if  Arturo  had  not  been  killed  I'd  have  been  with  him  now. 
Or  if  not  —  "  and  she  looked  past  him  with  a  desolate 
wideness  of  gaze,  "and  I'd  left  him,  where  would  I  have 
drifted?  —  what  would  I  have  been  to-day?  .  .  .  How 
often  of  late  I've  asked  myself  that !  The  intention  —  the 
whole  thing  I  planned  to  do  —  that's  what  really  matters. 
I  know  enough  about  the  logic  of  men  to  be  sure  that 
back  of  all  you've  said,  you  think  that." 

Robert  had  kept  urgent  hold  of  her  hands  with  the 
letter  pressed  between  them  as  she  spoke,  while  his  face 
grew  deeply  thoughtful. 

"If  you  knew  men  better,"  he  said  quietly,  "you'd  know 
we  are  utterly  illogical,  perhaps  fools,  about  one  thing  — 
the  physical  sacredness  of  the  one  woman.  —  And  there's 
something  else :  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  potency  of 
—  memory?  Had  chance  not  lifted  you  out  of  the  danger 
you  were  in,  what  soiling  memories  you'd  have  now. 


The  Next  Corner  347 

What  we  are  emotionally  depends  so  much  upon  the  life 
of  our  minds.  So  I  say  to  you  —  thank  God  that  you 
were  kept  from  what  would  have  been  degradation  —  that 
there's  no  memory  of  it  burned  into  you." 

They  remained  quiet  a  moment  after  this.  A  glowing 
silence. 

When  Elsie's  voice  stole  through  it,  Robert  felt  it 
the  most  moving  thing  he  had  ever  heard:  "I  can  bear 
to  have  you  read  it  now,"  and  she  forced  the  paper  into 
his  hold. 

He  made  an  almost  angry  movement  as  if  to  tear  it. 
She  clung  to  his  hand. 

"Think  how  I  tried  to  keep  it  from  reaching  you,  how 
I'd  seem  to  die  at  the  thought  of  your  seeing  these  words. 
And  now  —  !  Oh,  isn't  it  wonderful  not  to  care?  —  to 
feel  so  sure?" 

His  look  was  still  unwilling.  "This  thing  has  scourged 
you  enough  — " 

"But  it  will  satisfy  me  to  have  you  know  everything 
about  me,  as  I  know  myself !  —  The  perfect  frankness 
that  is  brave !" 

"Well  —  if  you  want  it  so  much,"  he  said  amiably. 

Elsie  half  turned  away,  her  cheek  against  his  arm. 
She  heard  him  open  the  envelope,  heard  a  slurring  sound 
as  he  drew  out  the  enclosure.  There  was  a  rustle  of 
paper.  Silence.  The  incongruous  thing  following  made 
her  doubt  the  wisdom  of  having  forced  him  to  read  what 
she  hated  —  he  had  given  a  breathless  exclamation  of 
amazement,  and  it  seemed  to  jerk  her  to  face  him. 

"Nothing!"  he  said  in  hushed  excitement.  "Look  — 
nothing  at  all !  It's  blank  paper !" 

He  was  holding  the  letter  toward  her.  She  tried  to  take 
it.  Her  hand  dropped,  her  gaze  as  empty  as  the  sheet 
spread  out  —  for  it  was  empty  —  no  mark  on  it  except 
the  engraved  El  Miradero  at  the  top. 

Robert  .had  begun  to  scrutinize  the  envelope.  "Olaz- 
aba  — !  Did  he  open  it  —  change  it  ?  Did  he  play  this 
in  his  game  as  a  gold  brick,  with  the  original  safe  in  his 


348  The  Next  Corner 

possession?"  He  stood  up,  his  look  changed.  "Why 
didn't  I  search  his  body?  I  had  the  chance.  And  I 
thought  of  it  —  I  was  too  decent.  The  letter  may  be 
found  on  him!" 

Elsie  had  stood  up  too.  She  had  drawn  the  envelope 
from  Robert's  hand.  A  still  look  of  uncanny  knowledge 
was  spreading  slowly  in  her  face. 

"Isn't  this  absolutely  unbroken?"  she  asked,  and 
pointed  to  the  seal. 

"Yes.  But  the  original  wax  might  have  been  picked 
off  and  a  fresh  splash  put  over  the  spot." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  "Impossible !"  When  after 
a  pause  she  spoke  again,  an  odd  deadness  had  come  to  her 
voice.  "There  was  only  one  ring  on  earth  that  could  have 
put  that  crest  there,  and  I  had  it.  Olazaba  thought  this 
held  my  letter  to  you.  It  never  did.  It  was  changed  —  in 
the  very  beginning." 

The  room  where  she  stood  faded  for  Elsie,  and  Robert 
with  it.  She  was  back  in  El  Miradero.  She  had  given 
her  unsealed  letter  to  Arturo  and  had  asked  him  to  read 
it.  He  had  refused;  had  turned  away  from  her  to  bend 
over  the  high-backed  desk  as  he  had  appeared  only  to 
seal  and  stamp  it.  He  had  faced  her  again,  the  letter 
ready  in  his  hand  —  and  this  empty  sheet  was  in  the  en- 
velope in  place  of  her  own! 

She  heard  his  words :  "Think  —  are  you  sure  you  wish 
to  send  it?  Wouldn't  later  do?" 

And  when  she  knew  Serafin  was  coming  for  it,  her 
reply :  "Oh,  maybe  I  ought  to  say  something  more  in  it.  — 
Send  word  for  Eduardo  to  wait.  I  could  say  — " 

How  full  of  meaning  now  was  his  remembered  answer: 
"No !  Send  it  —  or  destroy  it.  Shall  I  fling  it  in  the 
fire?" 

Ah,  she  might  send  it  as  it  was !  Or  she  might  burn  it 
as  it  was  !  She  might  not  open  it. 

Her  mind  worked  so  alertly,  speculation  as  to  the  fate 
of  the  pages  that  had  been  so  nimbly  stolen  charged 
through  it.  Had  Serafin  the  real  letter,  after  all?  Had 


The  Next  Corner  349 

he  come  upon  it  among  Arturo's  papers  after  his  de^th? 
The  answer  overlapped  the  thought  —  No !  Serafin  had 
not  found  it,  for  Arturo  had  burned  it  when  he  had  thrown 
what  he  had  called  his  old  love  letters  on  the  last  flare  of 
the  fire,  —  and  he  had  thrown  them  on  only  that  he  might 
destroy  the  one  he  feared.  In  the  hour  that  had  been  su- 
preme and  magical  to  her,  he  had  been  cautious,  circum- 
spect. 

As  she  relived  this  scene,  she  told  it  in  patches,  and 
trembling,  sat  down  again.  Her  shoulders  were  bent.  She 
had  thought  she  knew  humiliation  at  its  heaviest  on  the 
day  she  read  of  Ascuncion  and  had  come  to  see  back  of 
Arturo's  gentleness  and  gravity  a  sort  of  self-sanctioned 
license  to  passionate  lawlessness  and  double-dealing  with 
women.  Even  that  had  held  something  of  strength,  some- 
thing ruthlessly  primitive.  His  precisely  careful  cheating 
of  her  when  their  happiness  had  seemed  at  its  loveliest  was 
—  cheap.  She  could  not  look  at  her  husband. 

The  subsiding  crackle  of  the  fire  put  an  edge  on  the 
stillness  that  hung  for  moments.  And  then  Robert  said 
her  name. 

"Don't  feel  so  badly,"  he  went  on.  "You  shine  by  con- 
trast. Don't  you  see  that?  Poor  Elsie  —  you  were  in 
bad  hands  that  night!  The  master  tricked  you  so  that 
when  time  for  payment  came  there  would  be  nothing  in 
black  and  white  against  him.  And  the  servant  tricked 
you,  if  only  from  a  bargain  hunting  sense  to  have  an 
advantage  of  you  that  might  some  day  be  of  some  sort 
of  value  to  him." 

She  heard  him  turn  away  and  lifted  her  head.  Wist- 
fulness  replaced  the  darkness  of  self-repugnance  as  she 
watched  him  throw  the  blank  paper  and  its  envelope  into 
the  fire,  press  them  down  with  his  boot  heel  until  the  flame 
had  made  ashes  of  them. 

"There!"  he  said,  and  turning,  drew  her  up.  A  hand 
vigorously  on  each  of  her  shoulders,  he  gave  her  a  hardy 
shake.  His  familiar  smile,  where  drollery  showed  subtly 
though  his  lips  scarcely  moved,  considered  her.  "That's 


350  The  Next  Corner 

over.  No,  my  dear  —  it  never  was.  Like  the  letter  that 
haunted  you,  tortured  you  —  nothing  —  nothing  at  all ! 
—  And  here's  Candida  with  coffee  —  God  bless  her." 

He  opened  the  gallery  doors  and  the  smiling  girl,  car- 
rying a  big  tray,  came  through  them,  the  blue-pink  luster 
of  the  morning  in  its  full  glory  behind  her. 


THE      END 


A  Powerful  Analytical  Novel 


AGAINST  THE  WINDS 


By  KATE  JORDAN 

With  illustrations  by  Clark  Fay 
12mo.    Cloth.    348  pages. 


"An  entertaining  and  vivid  story,  with  an  abundance  of 
variety  and  color.  Conceived  and  written  in  a  spirit  of 
romance,  the  novel  is  dramatic  and  holds  the  reader's  atten- 
tion throughout." — New  York  Times. 

"It  is  a  strong  story,  dealing  with  human  nature  under  a 
variety  of  situations,  which  are  powerfully  though  delicately 
handled.  It  holds  the  reader's  sympathy  very  firmly  from 
start  to  finish." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  'Against  the  Winds'  carries  with  it  a  new  variety  of  emo- 
tional appeal,  an  attribute  of  literary  finish  and  an  atmos- 
phere of  imaginative  balance,  which,  added  to  the_  pure  story 
quality  with  which  it  is  so  happily  endowed,  make  it  one  of  the 
most  readable  and  fascinating  novels  of  the  season." — Phila- 
delphia Press. 

"  'Against  the  Winds'  is  an  absorbing  book.  ^  Completely 
American,  graphic,  realistic,  yet  sympathetic,  it  reaches  a 
high  mark  of  fictional  excellence.  Few  books  have  been 
written  which  indicate  so  clearly  the  fluid  condition  of 
American  life.  It  is  one  of  the  best  American  novels  of  the 
season." — Chicago  Daily  Tribune. 


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